Where Angels Tread
by stellamira1936
Summary: Definitely NOT a romance. Rather, an exploration from an original point of view of how incredibly complicated it is to be Mycroft Holmes, and how did he get from "Caring is not an advantage," to "Your loss would break my heart" ? Sexual situations (although that's not the main point), prostitution, light bondage. The timeline tucks into the six-month lacuna of "His Last Vow."
1. Chapter One

Chapter One: "Somewhere beyond right and wrong, there is a garden. Meet me there." ~ Rumi

When you are a shade over six feet tall, figuring out how to get out of a car gracefully in a pencil skirt and high heels is more of a challenge than most people realize. It's not something they covered in my training at the Agency, either, although you'd think it might have come up, since they were so thorough in everything else. It's the sort of thing that takes practice, and I haven't had much of that yet. Still, the outfit makes me feel fabulous, even though it causes me to stumble a tiny bit over the kerb as I unfurl myself from the minicab. I hear the driver laughing as he roars off, and I'm glad I didn't tip him.

I hurry to get under the marquee for shelter out of the summer drizzle. July is supposed to be one of the few warm, dry months here in London, but tonight is neither; I wish I had worn the jacket that goes with this skirt, but I thought it would look too formal. I pull my phone out of my red leather clutch and send my manager the obligatory text: _Arrived at Marylebone Hotel. _ It's seven minutes to nine, despite the traffic delays. I swear that cabbie went by way of every street under construction he could find! I'm not calling him again. Doesn't matter, here I am, plenty of time to get to my nine o'clock meeting.

A gaggle of tourists are coming out as I go in the wide glass doors of the hotel. One of the men holds the door for me, and gives me a slow, appreciative once-over as I go past with a murmur of thanks. I don't understand women who dress to kill and then complain that men stare. I like attention, I always have. If anything, I wish I could dress more daringly for work, but the Agency forbids it. Official policy is that we maintain a fairly conservative appearance.

The lobby is bright, and humming with activity. I stride purposefully toward the lifts, passing a little group of painfully well-dressed young men clustered by the door. In German, they are loudly debating which club would give them the best chance of getting laid by an English girl tonight. Jerks. I consider for a brief moment stopping and advising them to just give up and hire a nice call girl instead, but really, there are some things youth just has to find out on its own. Not that I'm so old myself, not quite past the quarter-century mark yet, but I think I've traveled more miles than most people my age.

I pull my phone out again to check the text I'd gotten this morning from my manager. I've learned the hard way that it pays to double-check the time and room number. _Mr. Tate, all the usual, Sat 9pm-11pm, Marylebone Hotel #514._ Fifth floor, then. I square off in front of the shiny steel lift doors, hit the Up button and wait.

I hate elevators. You know, people can die in them. A family friend was killed in an accident at his office building when I was a child. I never got over it. His leg got caught when the doors snapped shut and he got crushed and died. True story. I'd take the stairs up instead, except that I don't want to arrive panting and sweaty.

Somebody must be holding it up on the fourth floor, the light up there isn't moving. Damn. Nothing for it but to wait.

Staring at the polished doors, I can see my reflection clearly. I vogue just a tiny bit and pull my "pretty face." Yes, I'm a little bit vain. Alright, quite vain. My sister Sara has pointed out more than once that I can't pass a reflective surface without checking myself out, and I have to admit that she's not just being bitchy. I do have a touch of narcissism, but when you are as good-looking as I am, people are willing to forgive you your tiny little flaws.

Yes, that's a joke. I have a weird sense of humor, I can't help it.

I glance down to make sure that my slim skirt is smooth and straight, and there are no stray threads dangling from my very-business blouse; everything in it's place. "Mr. Tate" is very particular about his own clothes, he probably notices details about other people's.

The lift doors finally slide open in front of me, and I'm annoyed to see there wasn't even anyone in it. Why the hell were they holding it, then? Whatever. I take a deep breath, and step across the threshold into the lift. I know that doesn't seem like such a big deal, but for me it is, every time. I get this weird tingle of fear zinging up my thighs every damn time, classic PTSD symptom. Little things that happen when you are a kid can leave a big impression.

I hit the button for the fifth floor, and check my phone again for the time. Four minutes to nine.

The lift hums around me, and I consider "Mr. Tate." Not his real name, of course, since one of the Agency's cornerstones is absolute anonymity. His real name is Holmes. This will be my third meeting with him, and in the six years that he's been a client of the Agency, I'm the first person that he's taken three consecutive meetings with, and the only woman he's met with in years. Now, I'm not supposed to know any of that, because the Agency treats all client information as highly-classified, burn-after-reading, top-secret stuff. Our managers are only supposed to share with us what is absolutely necessary and no more. They even try to forbid us employees to share information amongst ourselves, which is silly. Of course we share. We have our own online forum, completely secret, and we gossip to our hearts' content.

The humming stops and the doors slide open. I force myself to step like a normal person over the threshold instead of doing a gazelle leap, and park myself beside a huge, fake potted plant to wait for a minute to tick by so I won't be early. I check in my clutch for my cigarette case, and for a nanosecond consider a quick smoke. That would be stupid, obviously, since the Mighty Powers that Meddle have decided to make it impossible to have a smoking habit indoors, but the fact that I actually considered it means I can't continue to ignore that I feel just a little nervous.

I'm not the nervous type, usually. I'm a people-person, I can get along with almost anybody, and I can usually get what I want out of a situation. That may sound cold, but it's not. Everyone manipulates, right? Whether they realize it or not, they do. I'm no different, I'm just really good at it. But areound this Holmes, I feel like I'm trying to walk on a carpet of ball-bearings. No movement brings the result you expect, and it always feels like you are on the verge of falling on your backside. I wonder if he's like that all the time, everywhere. He's certainly not somebody I would want to hang out with outside of a meeting, even if I were inclined to that sort of thing.

I check my phone again. One minute to nine._ Show-time, Angelica_, I tell myself, and start off down the hallway looking at the brass numbers on dark wooden doors. There's 514, right where it should be.

I rap softly at the door, and immediately it swings open, sending strains of quiet classical music wafting into the hallway. It's precisely nine o'clock, and I can tell from the faint quirk around the edges of his mouth that he approves.

"_Angel. Come in_." The tall, slender man in an immaculate navy-blue suit steps aside so I can enter, then quickly shuts the door behind us. He isn't furtive-and believe me, I know what furtive looks like-but he is oddly alert. Guilty? I glance at his left hand, and note once again that it does not, and probably never has, worn a wedding ring. He wears a plain gold band on the right ring-finger, but since the odds of his being Eastern Orthodox are slim to none, it's probably a sentimental piece.

There is no greeting, no hellos, no how are you's. I caught on to that fast, our very first meeting. My usual effervescent conversation, my attempts to draw him out and make both of us comfortable, all the soothing flirtation that puts men at ease...made him wince and subtly grind his teeth, even though he responded politely enough. So I just shut up, and he relaxed. The less I talk, the happier he seems, and he's paying a hell of a lot of money for me to make him happy for a few hours; the least I can do is be silent, if that's what he likes, even though it feels strange to not even say hello to someone who is shortly going to be pounding me into the mattress.

I lay my clutch down on a side table by the door and check things out while he busies himself with a decanter and ice bucket at the wet bar. There is the sharp smell of whisky. The room is typical for the Marylebone since the remodel; very posh and chrome-contemporary, but a little cramped. However, there is a sturdy headboard fastened to the bed, no doubt one of the reasons that we're here. Usually the Agency makes the arrangements for out-call accommodation, but it's one of this man's particulars that he should do it himself. A different hotel each time, apparently, but sturdy headboards are a must. There is a plain black gym bag resting on the floor beside the bed, and I feel a little thrill of anticipation. Or something.

He settles into a plush white armchair with a tumbler of amber in one hand, and gestures with a slow, long-fingered sweep of the other to where he wants me to stand tonight for the initial viewing. A Bach adagio is playing softly in the background, with a treble chorus of tinkling from the ice in his glass.

This looking-over is apparently how he likes to start things. The first time he spent forever just staring at me, his slender fingers clasped together under his chin, his eyes half-closed. Then he had me walk around the room, sit down and stand up again. He told me to take off my clothing; I asked, _"How?_" When he arched an eyebrow at that, I added, _"Would you like me to take my dress off playfully, or demurely, or-?"_

_"Like you would if you were at your flat, alone_," he said. So I did, just like that, and he calmly watched like it was television.

Tonight, though, he stays sprawled in the chair only a moment, then he jumps up, drink in one hand, the other tucked into his trouser pocket, and starts stalking a restless circle around me. I stand still as stone, staring into the middle distance as if I were modeling for a life-drawing class.

I enjoy being looked at, but it's a little boring just standing there avoiding eye contact. I wonder if tonight will be the same as our last two meetings? I'm betting it will, that he's the type who will quickly evolve a rigid ritual around stressful activities, and then not deviate from it. I mentally flip through my catalog of mental disorders again. Yes, he's very definitely on the spectrum for Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder, but not obviously dysfunctional enough to qualify as full-blown OCD. I wonder if he's in treatment.

At our first meeting, as I watched the man methodically folding and hanging his clothes as he removed them, one layer after another, I decided he could be the OCPD poster child. The suit coat carefully hung up on the silent valet in the corner, then his cufflinks undone and lined up in the center of the wooden tray below it. The pocket watch and chain followed the cufflinks, but not before he had snapped it open for one more look at the time. Sleeve gaiters-gaiters! who on earth wears sleeve gaiters these days?-slipped off and laid in the tray as well, then the waistcoat was finally unbuttoned and hung up...his tie not just loosened and slipped off, but undone, carefully smoothed and folded over the tie-bar...his shirt shaken out, hung so the sleeves were exactly equal, and all the buttons buttoned...then the shoes, laces carefully re-tied, lined up precisely under the valet...as a finale, he snapped the creases in his trousers so hard before hanging them up that I half-expected the fabric to complain at the treatment.

And that's where the disrobing stopped, since he seems to prefer to leave on his briefs, undershirt and socks. It's not altogether unheard of, although he's a little young to be one of that crowd; I guessed his age at no more than early 40's. To each their own, as my mother used to say, but I have to admit it feels weird to have sex with a fellow who is still in his underwear.

The underwear thing is actually a bit weirder to me than are the restraints that Holmes requires. So many clients want to do BDSM that it hardly rates as a fetish anymore, to be honest, but it does require at least a minimal bond of trust between the escort and client. I bet that was a problem for Holmes before he got a referral to the Agency—how do you keep people at arm's length and still get your needs met, unless you've got just the right kind of professional to help out?

The Agency provides the right kind of professionals, although even professionals run into snags sometimes.

When I had my first meeting with "Mr. Tate" I was expecting to be put in restraint right away, but I wasn't happy when he snapped some official-looking metal handcuffs on me. I had been told he provided his own equipment, but nobody mentioned metal cuffs. They are damned uncomfortable things, especially when you have to wear them for hours in odd positions. I very nicely let him know afterwards that metal wasn't my preference, and he seemed genuinely surprised and actually apologized. Apparently I was the first escort ever to object, go figure. At the second meeting, he brought some lovely squishy wrist-cuffs in black suede, but it was impossible to tighten them securely enough for his satisfaction.

_"I dislike being touched_," he said in his soft, cultured voice, and added that it was important to be sure it wouldn't happen accidentally. We were both annoyed that the squishy fetters were too big for my slender wrists, but I saved the day by suggesting that the cuffs be firmly secured above my elbows, with the tether clipped between the bands to keep my arms behind my back. It worked pretty well, and was more comfortable than the metal handcuffs.

So what's in that gym bag for tonight? Thinking about it doesn't exactly turn me off.

Holmes finally stops his pacing to stand directly in front of me, and I notice that the high heels I'm wearing put me just a bit above eye-level with him. For some reason, this pleases me immensely. We're roughly the same size, although a bit differently shaped, but I could wear his lovely three-piece suit quite comfortably.

This brings on a huge urge to giggle. I really do have a strange sense of humor, and it surfaces at the oddest times. I have to work hard to suppress it tonight. Giggling at clients when it is not mutual is a Very Bad Idea, and I have the feeling that Holmes would be especially unimpressed.

He is looking into my face so intently that I'm surprised to not have laser holes bored through to the back of my skull. Despite the intensity of those blue eyes, the man's face has a remote and cold expression, as if he were very decidedly somewhere else. It's unnerving to be looked at and looked _through_ at the same time. He seems so detached. A thought flashes through me: How silly to pay an enormous amount of money for an experience that you aren't even going to be fully present for! What a waste. Looking into the face of this balding, middle-aged man, I feel...well, uneasy, yes, but I also feel a little sorry for him. He is untouched, and untouchable, and that's how he wants it...

Holmes looks away, and sets the empty tumbler down on a side table. _"Undress_," he says softly, but this time doesn't sit down to watch. He goes over to the bed and unzips the gym bag, taking out what looks like a tangle of leather belts. It jangles quietly.

Even though I look fabulous in it, my slim skirt and business-lady blouse yet again proves a poor choice as a working outfit; I have to peel myself out of the skirt, tugging and wriggling. My black lace bra and knickers come off more quickly. I hesitate a moment over the shoes, since some clients like the look of a naked woman in sexy shoes, but I guess if he had a preference there he would have mentioned it. I prefer to take them off; the heels and buckles get hung up in the sheets sometimes, and in any case it always feels horribly wrong to wear shoes in bed. Bare as I was born from head to toe, I wait.

Holmes walks slowly back toward me, his slim hands patiently untangling the jangling leather. I am hoping and praying that those leather straps and brass rings are not some idiotic pony-play headgear piece. With the ridiculously twee ears. Please, God, not pony-play headgear. Butt plugs with horsey tails I can do gladly, but not bits and bridles and twee ears, nor am I overly fond of riding crops.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that there aren't any ears, and he glances up with a sharp look at the sound. He holds up the untangled leathers, and I can see it's a very nice, well-finished dark brown harness. I silently put my arms out to the sides, and he carefully places the strapping on my naked torso. The leather is cool on my skin, but the brass buckles are downright cold, and I feel my bare nipples clench and harden in response. His blue eyes dart down to take that in, and I see the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. He might be taking notes, I'm not sure.

His hands are careful and precise as he adjusts the various slides and buckles, until the harness sits perfectly, snug but not too tight. It's a clever design, attractive yet with loads of attachment points, sturdy without looking clunky. And it fits like it was custom-made. I am really liking how I feel in it. Holmes walks around me again, as if silently admiring, then returns to the gym bag and pulls out matching leather cuffs, four of them.

He fastens the smaller two around my wrists, the larger two around my ankles. The fit is perfect, like made to measure. Once more he stands back, looking pleased, then sweeps his fingers toward the bed. Obediently, I go turn down the sheets and sit, while he dims the lights down. It starts to feel a little surreal to me, especially since he has yet to even take off his suit jacket and I am sitting here naked in High Fashion Bondage, ready to be trussed up like a Christmas goose.

He does stop to take off and hang up his jacket, then, and the trussing commences. His eyes have that remote coldness again, and his face is a blank, polite mask, but his hands are gentle-I don't know that they wouldn't be, were I to resist, but there is no need to find out. He doesn't push my limbs further than they can comfortably go, and after a few minutes of creative bending, twisting, and clipping, I am immobilized and helpless. And unexpectedly anxious. I wasn't anxious like this the previous two sessions, but I wasn't completely immobilized before, either. This is different, _he_ is different, tonight.

I focus on my breath to quell the panic. _Don't be silly, Angelica__! _ I remind myself that I choose to be here willingly, that this client is a personal referral from other trusted clients, and they wouldn't refer him if he were a dangerous psycho-yet I can't deny the anxiety that blooms from nowhere and starts rolling around in my belly. I suddenly have to pee.

I'm pretty sure that I'm not really in any danger. Pretty sure. I'm disturbed to realize how much the thought of an element of danger is turning me on right now. I need to think about that some more, later.

He's faced me toward the wall, clipped to that sturdy headboard. I hear him somewhere behind me taking off his clothing, the clink of the cufflinks and pocket watch in the tray, the rustle as he hangs his shirt, the snap of trouser-creasing. I lay there breathing deeply, waiting, listening to a cello adagio quietly weaving around itself. Then I can feel him behind me, looking again. For what seems like forever, just looking, taking me with his eyes.

Then I feel the mattress shift as he kneels closely behind me on the bed. He reaches out and lays his hands on my skin, cautious at first, then urgently, like he's hungry for the feel of it. Those long, slim-fingered hands are twitching over me, pressing, rubbing, exploring. He isn't tender or gentle, but he isn't brutal either. I've been touched in a lot of different ways by many men and no few women, but I have never felt touch like this. It's...demanding. Greedy. His hands are everywhere, all at once, and I have no power at all to deny or resist. It's almost too much.

He didn't do it like this the other times, but I wasn't so well-secured the other times. He probably feels safe. So, isn't that ironic? His feeling of safety is inversely proportional to mine...but we're both getting turned on. I can hear his breathing getting faster and more ragged, his touching is turning into grasping and relentless probing. I writhe around slightly, as much as the tethers allow, and moan very quietly. I can't help it, although I'm doing my best to stay still and quiet.

He doesn't seem to mind that I'm making a little noise; it seems to egg him on. He actually starts to brush my skin with his face, like a cat does when it greets you with a purring head-rub. My sister the veterinarian told me when a cat does that, they aren't being lovey, they are actually marking you as their territory. I don't know if Holmes is being territorial, but he certainly isn't being lovey. He's getting rougher and rougher with me, really lost in the hard physical contact.

He seems to discover my hair for the first time, and presses his face into it and plays with it like he's never run his fingers through long hair before. That's a funny thought, maybe he hasn't. Who knows?

After a while, I feel him turn toward the bedside table, and hear the crackle of a condom wrapper, and I know he's getting ready to enter me from behind. I subtly tuck my hips and arch my lower back, making my arse less accessible. I don't mind taking it in the pucker, but I don't like it as a surprise, and given his history, he might forget in the heat of the moment that there is another option.

He doesn't forget. The actual main event doesn't last very long, but I suppose it lasts just exactly as long as he wants it to, since he's in total control. Thank goodness Holmes isn't one of those gents who needs the delusion that he is satisfying his escort as well. It is always so much more work to have to fake an orgasm, and then you have to heap on the praise after. I know ladies who profess to come with their clients all the time, but I think they're lying. Getting aroused is one thing, and I am pretty easily warmed up, but actually coming is something else again. I always save it for later, for myself.

It's a good thing I know not to expect any after-care, or, God forbid, cuddles, because once the deed is done Holmes is dressed and at the door like shot from a cannon. I'm grateful that the jerk at least remembers to unbuckle the cuff from my right hand, so I can move around and un-truss myself. He pauses with one hand on the door-handle, and, without looking at me, gestures with the umbrella in his other hand at the black gym bag on the floor. "_Take the gear with you, and bring it to our next meeting_." Then, snap, he's gone.

I feel wiped out, physically exhausted, which is funny, considering I didn't actually do much of anything. It must be his intensity. I've never been with someone that intense, but then I haven't been in the business all that long. I strip off the harness and cuffs and stretch my poor cramped shoulders and back, debating whether or not to take a shower before I leave. I sniff, and realize that I smell like him, all over. It's soap and expensive men's cologne and not at all nasty, but kind of overpowering. Shower for sure.

Like the room, the bath is a little cramped, but terribly posh. Nice fluffy robes, too. Wandering around drying my hair, I look over at the table where I left my clutch. Beside it are the room key-cards, with a few bills underneath. _Large_ bills. That...is one helluva tip. And the key-cards are a clear invitation to enjoy the hotel's amenities on his tab, a free pass to use the spa, get my hair and nails done, get a massage...

In the end, I decide I don't want any of those things, I just want to go curl up in the nice, cozy flat I share with Sara. I dress, text my manager_ "Mischief Managed_!" so she knows I'm safe, and go in search of a cigarette, and a cab to take me home.

Later, sitting with my feet up on the sofa, our cat Pablo curled in my lap, and a mug of hot milky tea in my hand, I listen to the reverberations of Sara's snoring carrying through the closed door of her bedroom. I'm glad that she's not awake and demanding gory details. My big sister says she wants to know everything because she worries about me, but I think her job at the animal hospital is boring her to death. Sometimes I make up things to tell her that will make her feel more boring. I'm just nice that way.

The black gym bag sits by the door where I dumped it when I came in, and I have an urge to rummage through and see if there is anything in it that can tell me anything at all about Holmes. I'm intensely curious about him, which is really interesting. I can feel myself going into stalker-mode.

The craving to find out everything I can about this man is visceral, but my head is also telling me that there is a mystery here I need to penetrate. Why has Holmes changed his sexual habits? If I've read him right, he is the sort of person who finds routine to be calming and supportive; he's not going to change his habits in such a big way just for a giggle. So, why me? I'm pretty fabulous, but I certainly don't think a man who clearly prefers men would look at my photo in the Agency's online gallery and suddenly decide he's straight.

And it's not like I can just ask him. I've never met someone so averse to talking, about anything.

True, sometimes a client just wants sex with no talk, but it's usually the other way 'round. Especially at the level of middle-aged angst that prevails amongst the clients that can afford to frequent the Agency, the men more often than not want attention, compassion, admiration, understanding, and intelligent companionship. They want to get off, too, of course, but the other things are just as important. And as a result, they don't shut up. They talk and talk and talk, and you are being paid to listen and to act like you care. I studied to be a therapist before I decided I liked escorting better, and there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of difference. Except in the pay scale, of course. Escorts make far more money for a lot less work, and the tips are tax-free.

But Holmes doesn't seem to want anything except to get off...or does he? That hard contact thing. I sip my tea, and remember how he almost seemed to be trying to crawl inside my skin. There was more going on there than just the quest for an orgasm.

_"Take the gear with you, and bring it to our next meeting_." That means he's going to ask for me again. Do I want to continue meeting with him? I can't ignore my deep feeling there's something not completely right about the man. He's scary, in a way you can't put your finger on. Possibly a psychopath? In any case, do I want to continue meeting with somebody who triggers my own anxieties? I could decline further meetings with him.

I realize I don't want to decline Holmes. What I want most of all is to satisfy my curiosity about who and what he is in real life, which is the taboo of taboos for anyone that works for the Agency. I am going to have to tread carefully here.

Glancing again at the black gym bag, I also have to admit that some part of me is looking forward to the next meeting. I finish my tea, dump Pablo off my lap, and take that part of me off to bed for some attention.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two: "She generally gave herself very good advice, (although she very seldom followed it)" ~ Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

I sleep in the next morning long enough to feel like a luxurious slug. Pablo finally wakes me up by pouncing on my head over and over again, yowling. He does not do "hungry" very well, and obviously Sara didn't feed him before she left this morning. Her current boyfriend likes to take her for Sunday brunch every week, to the same place every week, for the same conversation every week. Then she comes home to hear about my wild and exciting weekend, real and imagined.

Pablo finally settles down over his bowl of tinned smelly fish bits, and I sit in a dressing gown over my morning tea and toasted bagel, checking the messages on my phone. There's the doctor's office reminding me of my appointment tomorrow for my monthly blood draw and STD screening, Erik's friend Adam still trying to get me to go on a date with him, and my manager needs to hear from me "soonest, dear, soonest!"

I start the kettle for a second mug of tea and phone my manager, who seems mostly concerned with how I got on with my gentleman last night. Fine, I tell her. Just like the other two times. No problem. Lovely gent. I don't feel like discussing my misgivings with her. She then begins to bubble with enthusiasm; apparently "Mr. Tate" contacted her this morning to book meetings with me for the next two weeks, and inquired about the Agency's policy on long-term contracts. "I gave him all the details, and he is considering a three-month contract. Isn't that wonderful?"

I set down the kettle slowly. He's thinking about hiring me on retainer? For three months? Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell. I'm not even sure what to think. My mouth opens, and I hear myself asking what kind of fee would we be talking about here? She names a sum that is only a little less than what I am making per month now, at my usual work load.

Then she starts the sales pitch. _"And that would be you only meeting with him, of course, dear! With no limits on the number of visits, but he's not a super frequent customer, you know, he's a very busy man."_ She certainly is enthusiastic. Long-term contracts are desirable from the Agency's point of view, guaranteed income and all that, and it increases my market value as well.

_"There's just one thing..."_ she hesitates. I wait silently for the other shoe to drop. There's always a catch._ "He wants to be exclusive for the duration, so you would have to agree to no other clients, and no personal liaisons, you know? You aren't seeing anybody right now anyway, are you?"_

_"The only man in my life right now is my cat, and he's a eunuch."_ It's been four months since Erik and I called it quits, and I haven't been terribly eager to replace him after such a shitty breakup.

I make a point of telling her that even if "Mr. Tate" were to offer me a retainer, I might not want to take it. I can tell from her voice that she thinks I'm mad to even think about declining, but airily adds that it is, of course, my decision. It most certainly is, I think. After some more bubbling about what a nice, reliable client "Mr. Tate" is, she gives me my booking for tonight, and encourages me to make good decisions.

Hrumph.

Obviously, whatever Holmes got out of last night, he wants more of it. But why would he want to go to the expense of putting me on a three-month retainer if he's not even that frequent of a customer? And how much money does he have, to be able to afford it? Just what does he do for a living? Now I really want to do some serious stalking.

And here my common sense kicks in. Is it worth it to risk losing this client, and maybe my position at the Agency? I am fully aware that my obsessive nature is about to kick in, and it's not for the first time, and I know how difficult it can be when you get caught doing stuff like this. People don't like it. But, first, they have to catch me.

I haul out my laptop and set to using my google-fu to see how many Mr. Holmes there are in London.

I find seven of them in the 30-50 age range: a plumber, a bus driver, a bank manager, an accountant, two department-store clerks, and a very strange man who is a "consulting detective," whatever that is. There are quite a few pictures of the detective on the web, and a few of the others, but none of them look at all like my "Mr. Tate." I am starting to doubt what I thought I read on the forum about his name, and who was it that posted it anyway?

I log in, and first have to take care of some administrative stuff; a flame war has erupted again and my inbox is stuffed with complaints. I issue warnings to the combatants and leave it at that. I've only been with the Agency a year or so, but nobody else was willing to take on being admin and moderator for the forum when the founder retired. I don't exactly have mad computer skillz, but I'm very good at figuring things out.

I find the post in question, on the board labeled "johnspotting." Two years ago, Terry B. posted that he overheard "Mr. Tate" introduced at a social function as "Mr. Mycroft Holmes." I don't know Terry B., but I'm sure I know someone who does and can tell me if he is full of it or not.

I look again at all the postings that "Holmes" or "Tate" bring up when I search. There's nothing I haven't seen already. The advice from the working boys to each other concerning him is mostly about his requirements for restraints and staying clothed, warnings to not expect any conversation or warm fuzzies, and don't ever, ever try to touch him. There's not much else. Which is a little unusual, actually; there are all sorts of really juicy bits of gossip and inside information about all sorts of prominent people on the forum. Some of the stuff posted could be fodder for a blackmailer, if anybody had that turn of mind, but I decided a long time ago that it's not my job to protect people from the consequences of their vices.

My friend Steen contributed his opinion about "Mr. Tate" as, "Kind of creepy at times, although quite nice. But creepy. Don't annoy him." Steen would be a good one to ask about Terry B.'s reliability, and I could dish with him about the creepiness. He could help me decide if I should take the contract or not, if one is actually offered. And, besides, it would be good to see him, we haven't gone for lunch in ages. I text Steen a message saying that we need to talk very soon, and I'd be happy to treat him to lunch at the Maxwell for the privilege.

And that's about all I can do at the moment...Ah, the gym bag beckons! I haven't rifled through that for clues yet. Putting it up on the kitchen table, I unzip the bag and pull it wide open.

I'm hit by the sharp smell of new leather. Mmmmm. That's nice. Under it is a faint whiff of Holmes' cologne, and I wrinkle my nose. Whatever. I pull out the jangley bits of leather and the cuffs. Gorgeous stuff, all brand-new except for the creases and sweat stains from me, and all stamped "Fleet Ilya" in big letters; a quick googling shows which shops carry that designer, but that's not going to be any help at all, is it? I can't just waltz into Coco de Mer and ask sweetly to see their list of recent bondage gear customers.

Feeling around the empty bag doesn't turn up anything else, either, and there's nothing on the bottom. A tag inside informs me that it was made, like everything, in China of 100% cotton and is exclusive of decoration. Well, damn. What did I expect, that he'd be so stupid as to leave a credit card receipt inside? People who can afford to pay for the company of people like me generally aren't idiots, although I have had to put up with a few noxious exceptions...and one of them is my booking for tonight...thinking about that is a little depressing, actually. The last time I had a meeting with this one, he mentioned what a cute little pony I would make...ick...

Steen rescues me from that line of reverie by answering my text: _CU __1-ish ok?_ Ha, I knew he wouldn't pass up being treated to lunch. I text back that 1-ish is fine, and head for some clothes.

We arrive at nearly the same time in front of the Maxwell, and I give a squeal and launch myself into his arms; Steen is one of the few men I can do that to without knocking him down flat. He is a big, handsome blond bear of a man, raised in Australia, and he is always complaining about how nobody here in Mother England knows how to hug properly, so I usually make a point of hanging all over him and being inappropriate.

A kiss on the cheek, and we are seated in a reasonably private corner of the dining room. I'm getting ready to launch into the reason I need to talk to him, when Steen leans forward and says earnestly, _"I know why you need to talk to somebody today, Angelica. Believe me, I understand. I was shocked when I heard about it, too."_ He reaches over and takes up my hand, giving a gentle squeeze.

Huh?

_"Well, I'm glad to have your sympathies, I really am, except that I don't know what you're talking about."_ I give his hand a double-squeeze back and pick up my salad fork. Steen gives me a searching look and says slowly, "_Then you haven't heard what happened last night?"_

_"No, what?"_

_"Calypso is dead. She was murdered."_

I put my fork down and reach for Steen's hand across the table again._ "What? Are you sure?"_ I feel myself go very cold, my stomach flips with shock. I didn't know her well, but I knew her. Calypso was one of the most successful independent escorts in London, an amazing, beautiful woman. Arab princes hired her for months at a time to go around the Continent with them; for ordinary men, she had a waiting list a mile long. We all wanted to be Calypso.

_"It was all over the papers this morning. Somebody shot her late last night, she was in her car, going home from a meeting with a client. The driver said that as they were stopped at a traffic light, a man rode up on a bicycle and shot her through the window. They've got a description from the driver, but there were no other witnesses, and no leads on it yet." He shakes his head. "Who would want to off Calypso? She was the nicest person you could meet. She just liked making people happy..."_

_"Jealous wife,"_ I say grimly, and pick up my fork again. Escort work, even if you are at the top of the heap, is still a risky business. If you aren't dodging lethal STD's, you are looking over your shoulder for crazed clients or their psycho wives and girlfriends.

We pick at our salads and talk more about Calypso, helping each other come to terms with it. I am still deeply shocked. It's not the first time somebody I've known has died suddenly, but it's the first time I've known a murder victim. I fervently hope they catch the bastard who did it.

Eventually, we tire of the topic, and during a lull I get around to asking Steen what he thinks about Terry B.'s ident of "Mr. Tate" as Mycroft Holmes. Steen verifies it, and adds some more; Holmes is a civil servant, one of the little guys in suits that keep the government ticking along. I pull out my phone and start to google the name "Mycroft Holmes," when Steen grabs it and quickly cancels the search. _"What did you do that for?"_ I say crossly.

Steen hands me back my phone with a wagging finger._ "Don't you know about name searches? People can have alerts tied to name searches so they know when they are being searched, and your phone will cheerfully tell them everything about you. If you have to look him up like that, for goodness sake use a public computer at the library or something!"_

_"He's a civil servant, Steen. Probably a glorified accountant. Why would an accountant need to have name search alerts?"_

_"Because he's a government accountant, Angelica. Who knows? Besides, don't you think it's a little odd that some petty bureaucrat would make enough money to hire Agency escorts? I don't know about you, but I don't come cheap,"_ Steen smirks, knowing what I'm going to say next.

_"You know very well that I don't come at all."_

_"That's because you have a witholding complex."_

_"No, it means I'm not as big a whore as you!"_ Steen likes it when I sass him.

A dessert tray is brought by and waved away by both of us; we get coffees instead, and Steen asks me, "_So why the sudden curiosity about Mr. Touch-me-not Tate? He doesn't fancy you ladies, you know."_

I tell Steen that Holmes has engaged me three times running now, and about the possibility of the three-month contract. His eyes get wide, and I'm having a hard time deciphering his expression. He's surprised, and envious, but trying to be nonchalant. And something else...angry? Hurt, judging by how the edges of his mouth tighten downward. Steen leans back in his chair, disengaging from me, and says, _"Wow! Just, wow. I guess the bloke wants to try something a little different, eh? That's great for you, that's really good. You've only been hustling for a year and someone wants you on retainer, now, that's something."_ He gives me a forced smile and sips his latte.

Great. How could I be so stupid? It dawns on me that my friendship with Steen is very much about his playing wise-big-brother to my silly-little-sister. Being hired on retainer is sort of the Holy Grail of escort work, something I know Steen has never been offered—and to add insult to injury, it's with a client that Steen identifies as on his turf.

I really can be a complete naïf sometimes. He was the exact wrong person to go to for advice. I should've kept my mouth shut. We finish our coffees in near-silence, and Steen does a gosh-will-you-look-at-the-time maneuver, thanks me for lunch, and then pretty much ducks and runs.

I sit there amidst the ruins of our lunch, and feel like shit. I'm mad at Steen for being so insecure, and I'm mad at myself for misjudging him. And I'm mad at the world for being the kind of place where beautiful, gentle women aren't safe from homicidal maniacs.

I shake it off, settle the bill and get out of there. I only have four hours to do some sleuthing before I have to get ready for work tonight.

Steen had a good point about using an anonymous computer. There's an internet café just a few blocks from the Maxwell, so I take my daily exercise and do a brisk walk there. Cyberia, as it's called, promises caffeinated delights of all sorts, but all I want to buy is a few hours of computer time.

The place is funky and faded, the computer equipment is outdated and sticky with spilled cappuccino, but the internet connection is fast, and there's live music by a chatty harpist. It's not a bad way to spend Sunday afternoon, ferreting out information. And boy, do I have to ferret. I think of one angle after another, trying to get anything on this Mycroft Holmes. It's almost as if he doesn't quite exist. There are no photos at all. He comes up as a member of The Diogenes Club, but according to the internet, he doesn't own a car or a flat or a house. Nothing is registered anywhere. He's not on any social or business networking. He's an alum of Oxford, but all the details are blank. I do dig up an office address, though, and I'm pretty chuffed about that.

And then I hit the jackpot. I thought to search the council records in all of the more posh districts around London, the nice leafy neighborhoods, because it seemed to me that he would like someplace like that better than a modern flat or rooms at a hotel. And it pays off! I find a request for variance that Mr. Holmes' solicitor submitted on his behalf several years ago, concerning an ancient oak tree that infringed the public throughway. Holmes won the variance, jolly good for him, but what thrills me is that the council records list his home address.

I barely have time to jot down the information, though, before the computer screen goes blank. I poke a few buttons, since I still have some minutes on the time card, but nothing. Looks like the system crashed completely, which is what you get for using junk like this. I make sure and tell the barista on my way out the door about the crash, and he shrugs; apparently every computer on the router went down at the same time, probably some virus.

I leave the cafe feeling pretty good. I've got home and work addresses for Holmes, and what club he hangs out at in-between. I still have two hours to kill, so I think about burning some money to hire a cab and do some sight-seeing. It's Sunday afternoon, right? People are usually at home on Sunday afternoons…

I consider faking a foreign accent when I tell the driver that I want to go sight-seeing through some nice neighborhoods. I can do some very convincing accents, but I decide it's not worth the effort, and I'm right; I can tell he could care less as long as I'm paying him.

It's a nice ride. I forget how pretty the leafy parts of the City are, and what a beautiful thing a well-tended garden can be. I miss that about not living in the country anymore, having a little plot to plant and tend. Sara says I can put out all the window boxes I care to at her place, but it's not the same at all as a real garden, and here in these districts they have Real Gardens.

I tell the driver to slow way down, but not stop as we enter the lane where Holmes' house is; I want to get a good look without being too obvious. I am going to assume that there are security cameras everywhere, because this is the type of place where they have them. And, to be fair, they probably need them.

This man definitely is not just a civil servant, to be able to live here. The house that matches the address I found online is a gem of a small Tudor country home, tucked far back and nearly hidden by manicured hedges, and fronted by a sprawling, enormously gnarled oak tree that overhangs the street and leaves little doubt that this is the place.

We've passed the property by all too quickly, before I could see any details, so I tell the driver to turn around down the road and go back. He obediently heads the cab back again, and I unbuckle and slide over in the back seat so I can crane my neck more effectively as we pass the house. I catch glimpses of an elegant, lovely old place, with ivy-covered walls, leadlight windows, the works. Nice. It suits him.

Of course, now that I've seen the outside of the house, I am dying to see the inside even more. Stalking is like that, it's addicting. I know I should rein it in. A little indulgence keeps the beast content, but too much just makes the thing stronger.

Although, you know, a third pass would probably go unnoticed; the lane is completely deserted. I ask the driver to do one more pass, and he pulls into a driveway down the lane to do a turn-about, when I notice a shiny black car cruising slowly up behind us. I feel a tingle of fear go up the back of my thighs, and quickly tell my driver to forget it, to go back the way we came. He grumbles about women and making up their bloody minds, but he does it.

And the black car follows us. The tingle has gone from my thighs to my stomach, which is now doing flip-flops. I do my calming breaths and try to keep from panicking. Panic turns people into stupid animals who do stupid things. There is nothing here to panic about. The security cameras probably caught us doing a slow drive-by, and the men in the car are doing their job to be intimidating. They are just following, not shooting or trying to run us off the road or anything. This is intimidation, and it is working quite well, I must say.

The black car is still following us, closely, as we re-enter the City and the traffic picks up. I'm calmed down enough to start thinking furiously about how to get out of the taxi without being spotted or, terrifyingly, accosted by whomever is in the black car.

My driver has noticed that we are being followed, of course, and also how I keep glancing in the rear mirror at the black car gliding behind us. Finally he gives me a bit of a lopsided grin in the mirror, and says, "_Well, miss, would it be worth an extra bit of a tip for me to lose them?"_

_"YES!"_ I sit back and fasten my seat-belt once more, and he suddenly turns into a stunt-driver. We roar off and leave the black car choking on our fumes! They must have been taken completely by surprise, because they don't immediately follow as we duck and dodge around the traffic, and we seem to lose them pretty quickly.

Just as I asked, my driver takes me right back to where I started. I pay him his fare quickly, with a generous tip on top of it, and hurry to merge with a mob of other young people sauntering down the sidewalk. Nobody ever minds it if a friendly, pretty blonde joins them, a fact that I have used to my advantage more than once. I see the black car go by a few minutes later, cruising slowly, but I'm certain I'm invisible, a tree hiding in the forest. I can't stop grinning all the way home. Mischief managed.

Much later in the evening, I am sitting in a comfy chair in a lovely hotel room with a lovely drink in my hand, and making myself smile at the inane jokes of one of the stupidest men to ever bear a well-known title. The client says he has a surprise for me tonight, and can hardly wait to share it. He trots out a black gym bag, exactly like the one Holmes sent me home with, and I nearly lose myself in a giggle-fit. Really, do they issue these things at the store or something?

The client mistakes my suppressed mirth for girlish excitement, and theatrically opens out the bag with a flourish, producing...a collar and bridle. With, God help me, twee leather ears on it, and a bit.

And a riding crop.

The twit is grinning ear-to-ear, and I am really thinking it would be quite nice if the bridle is for him and not me, but I don't hold out much hope.

Much, much later in the evening, I am soaking my poor tender parts in a hot bath at home, and I am seriously considering having my manager amend my online profile page to stipulate, No riding crops. There are going to be bruises on my backside and thighs for quite a few days, I imagine. At least the client tipped me well for my troubles, but it's almost not worth the money; I won't be sitting comfortably for a while.

A three-month exclusive with Holmes is starting to sound pretty attractive, kind of like a working holiday, if you know what I mean. I sort of hope that he will indeed offer me one, but then I remember how anxious he made me feel, and the intimidating black car, and I'm back to wondering what I really do think.

I decide that since tomorrow is Monday and I don't have any lunch-time meetings, I might as well see if I can spot Holmes going in at his office. I might even be able to get into the building, if the security isn't too tight and I'm clever enough. I'll have to come up with some minimal kind of disguise, although I'm not too worried that he'll recognize me. I found out pretty quickly in this business that most clients don't really see their escorts-they don't remember the face, at any rate. Maybe other parts, although even that is debatable. I don't think we quite count as real people to them.


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter 3: "Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power." ~ Oscar Wilde

It's a beautiful morning for a Monday - for any day, really. I'm not a morning person, but it's hard to be sulky when the sun is shining and birds are chirping at the window.

I'm excited about my plans for today; I've never considered trying to cruise into a government building before, although I've weaseled my way into loads of other places where I wasn't supposed to be - nightclubs, private parties, corporate headquarters, that sort of thing. This shouldn't be any different. It's going to be fun.

When I yawn my way into the kitchen, it's still fairly early; for me, anyway. I'm already dressed, business-casual in linen slacks and blazer, my pale blond hair neatly pinned up, and nearly no makeup. I look like a human blancmange, ready to blend into any crowd. I just want to grab a quick cup of tea and some toast before I catch the tube for Whitehall.

Sara has other plans. She is still sitting at the breakfast table when I come in; she must be on the second shift at the animal hospital, and I can tell from her expectant expression that she wants to Have a Little Chat. She does this occasionally; it's an endearing character flaw that she is convinced that she knows best. Probably comes of being five years older than I am.

She gives me a once-over as I come in, and she looks surprised._ "Hey, you look great! Do you have a job interview?"_

I shake my head and put the kettle on._ "No. Why would I? I already have a job."_

_"I meant, for a real job. And I made you breakfast, it's right here."_ She pushes a loaded plate across the table and points to the chair in front of it. God, she must really want to Have a Little Chat, she's been cooking all morning. I make a face.

_"Sairs, you know I can't face a plate of fry-up first thing in the morning! I'll be sick. And I already have a real job, thank you very much."_ The kettle boils quickly, and after a splash of milk, I'm mashing around the tea-bag to get it ready faster so I can get out the door quicker._ "I make almost as much as you do. The pay cheque might be irregular, but if I want more money all I have to do is let my manager know that I'll take harder assignments."_ I sit down with my tea to pick a little at the toast and some of the bacon on the plate. Actually, I ease my backside into the chair, because I'm still just a touch sore from that meeting last night. I'm a softy about pain, which is why I don't usually take the "harder assignments." There are girls who genuinely enjoy that sort of thing, so why deprive them?

Sara makes a sour face and flips the front page of the morning newspaper over at me. The headline screams, CALL-GIRL MURDER SPREE: NEW JACK THE RIPPER?

My stomach clenches down around the tea and toast, and I spread my hands flat to keep them from shaking as I scan the article to see if I know the new victim. I'm a little ashamed of myself to feel relieved that I don't know her at all. The grainy photo, obviously taken from an online gallery of girls-for-hire, shows a pretty brunette in black lace lingerie. I've never seen her before; her working name was Tanya, and they don't give her real one yet. There is a photo of Calypso as well, giving her real name as Alice Potts. I never knew that. No wonder she went by Calypso.

The latest murder happened last night, almost exactly like Calypso's the night before, only the assailant was on foot and waiting in the shadows of a hedgerow near her flat. The gunman obviously knew where she lived, and where the cab was likely to pull up when dropping her off.

_"So._" Sara addresses the mug of tea she has wrapped in her hands._ "So, are you still so sure you have a real job that you want? I mean, this,"_ she looks up and waves her hand at the newspaper spread out in front of me._ "Doesn't that scare the hell out of you? As if it wasn't already bad enough!"_

I toss the paper back on top of the rest of it. Here we go again._ "Bad enough? What is already bad enough?"_

_"You know what I mean. It's already a risky business, what you do. You like to think nothing bad is ever going to happen to you, but it could. Those girls,"_ Sara gestures at the newspaper again,_ "they probably didn't think anything bad could happen to them. It's not like you don't have options, Angelica. You don't have to do this for a living, you could finish your degree and get a really good job. You're good with people, you'd make a great therapist or human resources person or something."_

She's leaning further and further forward, and I'm leaning back in my chair, finally crossing my arms in front of me. It's the zillionth time we've had this discussion, and I've no patience for it this morning.

_"Whatever would you do for entertainment if I worked some 'real job' like you? And how would I keep from dropping dead of sheer boredom myself?"_ It comes out snarkier than I intended, and Sara's cheeks flush slightly.

She stands up abruptly, lips pressed in a thin line._ "Fine. Whatever. I guess it doesn't really matter if you get yourself killed; it's not like you're doing anything useful with your life, are you?"_ She launches herself toward the door, grabbing coat and bag along the way, as I sit in stony silence.

Bitch. She can be so controlling. I know she means well and so forth, but she can be such a bitch about it. I gulp down the rest of my tea, looking at the front page of the paper again. Two escorts murdered in as many days on their way back home after meeting a client, both shot by a man with a handgun. Calypso was an independent, it looks like Tanya worked for an upper-end escort agency called Society Services. Both were...shot in the forehead, and at close range. That means that the gunman had to be looking them in the eyes when he did it. Definitely a psychopath. Former client? Did they suspect something was wrong with him, was he a little creepy, or were they shocked when they looked over and saw that face through the car window?

It's trendy to not have faith in the police these days, or much of anything else, but my father was in law enforcement; he was a good policeman, he really tried. He was no perfect human being, but he tried. I have faith that this psycho will be caught. For one thing, contrary to popular belief, Scotland Yard is actually pretty competent - but especially, because serial killers want to get caught. They're hungry to be noticed and acknowledged, it's part of their sickness.

And I hope they catch this sick fuck soon, because I really am beginning to get a little scared.

Well, there's nothing I can do about it, except try to be alert. Daddy taught Sara and I some basic self-defense, and I took it further to a brown belt in karate. Not any use against a gun, I know, but it does make you more confident, and sometimes confidence can make all the difference.

I stand up and scrape the plate of greasy breakfast into the bin. Nice thought, dear sister, but no points. I take one last look at myself in the mirror beside the door, practicing my pleasantly bland "nobody special" look, and then it's off to see what I can do to gain access to the Halls of Power. Well, the bastions of the civil servants, anyway.

# # #

By late morning, I am blending in easily with the crowds of purposeful-looking types that populate the government district that everyone just calls "Whitehall," after the main street. There are a few tourists here and there, and enough soldiers at station so that you know this is not just any busy office district. The buildings are all historic, and many of them are beautiful as well.

It turns out to be easy enough to get into the building where Holmes has his office-you just have to present a picture identification, and stand still in a plexiglass pod whilst they scan you for weapons and whatnot. And let them do a tiny search in your handbag. And answer a few questions about your purpose there, and do you have an appointment, and with whom? I have a story ready about being called in as a specialist consultant, naming a fellow with an office just down the hall from Holmes; if the security protocol requires that I have to be escorted to that office, my fail-safe plan is to suddenly remember that my appointment is for tomorrow afternoon, and beat a hasty retreat. If all else fails, act like a flutter-headed blonde, and people will dismiss you as impossibly dim and no threat at all. Being able to cry on cue helps as well.

But no theatrics are required; the bored woman behind the security desk waves me across the bustling atrium toward the row of lifts, and I pile in with half a dozen other people. My mouth is dry, from excitement and fear, but I feel like clapping and cheering for myself. Damn, but I am good!

I exit alone on the sixth floor, quite nearly managing to step out of the lift with a steady pace instead of a leap. There doesn't seem to be anybody about at all, but I'm still on high alert. I can't be seen acting suspiciously, I have to act like I know where I am going and what I am doing here.

Fail. Total fail. I haven't gotten more than a few doors down the hallway before a dark-haired woman in a black dress stops me and asks if I need help finding someone. Her pretty eyes are narrowed with suspicion. I can feel the color draining from my face, as my stomach sinks into my shoes. I stammer out, No, I am just looking for the loo? She points out the way, and I scamper off like it's an emergency. Which it is, because I am feeling sick to my stomach.

I hide in a shiny white stall and lean my head against the closed door. What the hell am I doing here? This is insane, I really am mentally ill. Not just a little bit, either. I'm stalking a client at his work. This is not the behavior of a normal, sane person. Sara wouldn't do something like this.

I do my slow breathing and gradually calm down. Yes, of course I'm a bit mad. That's why I majored in abnormal psychology; one of my instructors used to joke that most of the people who take up the study of mental illness are just trying to find out what's wrong with themselves.

I flush the toilet, even though I haven't been able to bring myself to wee, and take a long time at the mirror, washing my hands and smoothing my hair. I find my confidence again, and I take it with me.

Ms. Black Dress is no-where in sight when I emerge, thankfully. I scoot down the hallway briskly, taking myself past the door with a little brass name-plate beside it, "M. Holmes." I feel a little thrill in the pit of my now-calm stomach, but the door is firmly closed, and looking up at the high transom windows above it doesn't reveal anything. I pause just past the door and bend down to adjust the buckle on one shoe, listening carefully, but there are no sounds at all coming from the office. Probably he's not even in.

Oh, well. Remembering the black car that tailed my taxi yesterday, I decide that a second pass would be foolish. I head for the lift, passing a small herd of paunchy, grey-headed men coming the other way. One of them looks vaguely familiar, but I know he won't recognize me. They never do.

I have the lift to myself, and I lean back against the humming wall, feeling deflated and very, very foolish. All this stress and excitement, for what? To walk by the office door of some guy with a trust-fund income and a civil service post. Really. If I were hearing about this, I would think it was pathetic. I'm the one doing it, and I think it's pathetic.

The lift doors open at the atrium mezzanine level, and I have a sudden surge of prickles up the back of my thighs. I don't want to be in this lift even one second longer. As a group of young men with briefcases get in, I do a ballerina-leap out, and I'm not-quite-running away toward the stairs to the floor level. I just want to get out of here, now.

Stop. Acting like a ninny is going to just draw attention that I don't want. I make myself stop and breathe and take in my surroundings; I place my hands on the smooth metal railing that tops the low wall around the gallery where I'm standing, and look down at the people below. So much quiet bustling, so much purposeful busy-ness. These are the men and women in suits that keep the country running, and their voices hum like a beehive.

There are little clusters of people conversing, on their way here or there. I can see that a lot of informal business gets done in this bright, open space. Over there, a slim, balding man is holding court, relating a humorous story to a small audience of younger men; I can't make out his precise words because he's facing away, but his tone is dryly witty, and he punctuates his story with small gestures of the black umbrella in his left hand. There is some quiet laughter from his audience as the story ends, and the story-teller turns slightly to show his profile - and it is Mycroft Holmes. Gotcha!

Homes notices an older man with a grey mustache passing nearby, and moves toward him, the audience of youngsters following along behind like a shoal of fish. Pilot fish. I grin at the thought. Holmes moves around like a lazy shark, with his entourage of little pilot fish grooming away at him.

The older gent and Holmes greet each other warmly, and I realize that this is another big shark, since he, too, has his own shoal of little fishes. The sharks exchange pleasantries, the pilot fish groom each other anxiously and wait. Holmes stands with the umbrella planted in front of him, both hands on top. He looks to me to be wary of this other shark, who stands with both hands deep in pockets; the classic sign of someone who has something to hide. They are both smiling at each other, and talking with friendly animation. I can catch only little snatches of the conversation at first, then more as the grey mustache begins booming more loudly, maybe out of annoyance, even though both sharks are still smiling away at each other. There is much talk about a wedding and reception this Saturday, at Stoke Park. I know that resort! I was hired to go for a weekend foursome there last autumn. Nice place, very nice. Big beds.

Finally, the sharks shake hands with a promise to meet again on Saturday and part ways heartily, although the look that Holmes sends after the other man's retreating back is anything but pleasant. But then he tosses his umbrella over one shoulder like an infantry rifle, turns to his waiting pilot fish and jovially mentions a nearby restaurant. The idea is received enthusiastically, and Holmes glides off with his shoal.

I realize that I have been staring at this little scene below, and not stealthily. Anybody who saw me would know that I was staring at Holmes. I look quickly around, but there is no one near me at all; there are three women on a low bench at the other end of the gallery having a private conversation and texting on their phones, but I don't think they've noticed that I'm even here. One of them might-might!-be Ms. Black Dress from the sixth floor, but I can't be sure, as her face is bent over her phone.

It's time to get out of here, but not fleeing in panic. Slow but purposeful, I stride down the stairs, across the atrium. I give a nod to the security-desk woman, and then I'm out the door. For about two seconds, I consider strolling 'round to the restaurant that I heard Holmes mention, but immediately veto myself. I've had enough emotional roller-coastering for the day. What I need right now is a cup of tea, a couple of cigarettes, and some time to think.

# # #

Come Thursday I'm still thinking, and haven't come to any conclusions. I'm at a lunchtime meeting with a nice man named Mr. Li, and I am bored out of my mind. He is taking forever to come, but he won't allow me to help things along. Chinese guys are funny, they take it as a point of pride how long they can keep pounding away. They just keep going and going...honestly, it's really boring, but when it's all over you can get a huge tip if you tell them that you have never seen a man go at it so long and so fiercely. They love to hear that, it makes them feel virile.

So I while away the time by thinking about Holmes. I still don't quite get it. It's like the man with me at the hotel room is a completely different person from the one at work. Different voice, different expression, different body language. Everything. Could he be a multiple personality? It's really, really rare, but it would account for the creepiness factor. What an interesting thought! I need to study up this afternoon, because I have another meeting with "Mr. Tate" tonight at eight o'clock, at the Milestone in Kensington. I've already picked out the dress that I'll wear - no more pencil skirts! - and packed the little black gym bag. I'll need a good bath, of course, and probably shave again.

Mr. Li suddenly buries his hands into my hair and starts pulling it hard, grunting softly. I swing into my I-might-be-having-an-orgasm moaning and sighing routine, and he seems quite pleased with himself, relaxing happily. Some compliments, a few cuddles, a nice tip - the Agency handles the actual payment with a bank transfer, no crass bill-counting for me - and I'm dressed and out the door. Mr. Li took a little longer than his allotted time with me, but the Agency doesn't schedule us tightly for just that reason. It pays to be generous with your clients.

# # #

Six hours and forty-three minutes later, I arrive at the Milestone, armed with a mental check-list for Dissociative Identity Disorder, the new name for multiple personalities. Swinging at my side, the black gym bag jangles discreetly, the only noise in the quiet, wood-paneled lobby; even my steps are hushed by the cut-pile carpets underfoot. Everything is very 19th century, and very, very posh. The clerk behind the check in desk gives me a hard look as I stand waiting for the lift to arrive, but I guess I pass muster because he doesn't challenge me. I'm glad I wore the outfit I did, a sky-blue silk wrap dress, and some nice silver jewelry inlaid with turquoise. It's a pretty shade of blue, nearly matches my eyes.

Seventh floor this time. I'm not as nervous as the last time, actually hardly at all, and I think it's due entirely to my stalker activities. Maybe stalking gives me a feeling of power over the situation, like I'm in control of at least a tiny bit of it. I know where you live, where you work, who you are, mister! Whatever the reason, it's nice to not walk up to the door feeling like a quivering mess.

_"Angel. Come in."_ Holmes is wearing a grey pinstripe suit tonight, and the music on the stereo is Handel, but otherwise the drill is exactly the same. I place the gym bag on a near-by side table, and take in the room whilst Holmes pours himself a drink. Very elegant room, very Victorian, and I can tell at a glance why this place might justify the price he's paying for it tonight. The center of the far wall is dominated by a huge, four-poster bed. Hmmmm. That presents quite a few interesting possibilities, doesn't it?

Holmes goes to sit down in a tawny gold Queen Anne chair, but has to first move the black umbrella leaned against the arm. He hangs it by the ridged handle on the empty coat-tree in the corner, and waves me to stand in front of the chair as he sits down. He seems less agitated tonight, maybe because I'm calmer, or maybe it has nothing to do with me. Whatever the reason, we're both more relaxed. I strike a pose for him, and stand absolutely still.

As he's doing his looking thing, I mentally run down the checklist for DID. The big tell-tale is apparently memory lapses between personality switching, and that's just not possible to check on a casual basis like this. Some of the other traits do fit, though, and it might-

_"Undress."_ Holmes says softly, and I focus back on him and move to untie my wrap dress.

Abruptly, he says, _"No!"_ I stop, and look at him, uncertain. Holmes rises, and reaches for the ties himself. Carefully, he unwraps me from the dress, and it flutters down to pool on the floor around my feet. My lingerie is blush-pink tonight, with frothy silk lace on the front of the bra and knickers, one of my favorite sets. He walks around and around me, fingertips barely brushing across my body, a touch light as a feather. I shudder as one hand trails across my nipples, and I'm sure that his eyes crinkle slightly in a subtle smile. Around he goes, slowly, his face calm and contemplative, like he's memorizing bone and muscle and skin.

When he gets to my backside, I notice that he frowns and makes a little displeased noise deep in his throat. I remember the riding crop from Sunday night; I guess the marks haven't all healed yet.

He waves a hand at me, then. _"Off with all of it,"_ he says, going to the side table and opening the gym bag. I oblige, and by the time he has gotten the harness out and untangled, I am bare. I am watching him closely now, but only out of the corner of my eyes. I'm trying to discern if he is really manifesting a different personality, or just being different because it's a different situation. We all do the latter, I think, to one extent or another; what if he just has a social persona that is very different from his private self? And am I seeing his private self, or just another variation of his social mask? The idea fascinates me, until I notice that, as he carefully and precisely lays the leather straps on my skin and tightens the buckles, he is watching me watching him, and he is amused.

I blush a little and look away completely, keeping even the corners of my eyes to myself.

Once the harness and cuffs are secured, Holmes taps my shoulder and looks meaningfully at the big, four-post bed, and I go turn down the sheets and sit on the edge of it. I start to feel more anticipation, but not anxiety. Something certainly has shifted for me.

He turns down the lighting, and removes his suit coat, like before, and like before he guides me down into the position he wants me secured in; tonight I am spread-eagled face-down, one limb tethered to each post and a stack of pillows under my hips. It's not physically uncomfortable, at all, but psychologically it's challenging to have your legs spread like that with no defense. I can feel cool air wafting across places where air rarely wafts, and it feels just a little delicious. I can hear him disrobing again, no doubt the exact same ritual as before. I wonder if the ritual is to reduce anxiety, or if he just likes to do things in the same way. I guess the proof of it would be if doing it differently made him anxious. Hmm.

I'm tempted to take him up on that extended contract just to poke around and see what happens - if he offers one to me, of course.

I feel the mattress shift as he sits down between my spread legs, and I feel a little more air move across my inner thighs. He must be close between my legs, looking. I can feel his breath, and I have an impulse to giggle at the image in my head of him down there "playing Doctor." After a few minutes, I feel a fingertip carefully exploring around, sliding on the gathering wetness. I didn't know my fanny was going to be in for such a close scrutiny tonight, but I'm glad I gave it a clean shave just a few hours ago.

The one finger becomes two, and bits are pulled aside to reveal other bits. Good grief, he is playing Doctor after all. Well, it's not like it hurts, he's being quite gentle for the most part. It's just very odd to be subjected to such a thorough spelunking.

Gradually, he starts to run his hands over my thighs and bum as well, his fingers lingering here and there on the bruises, like you might finger a chip on a teacup. Then I feel lips and tongue touching my skin as well, tasting me all over. And teeth, not always gentle. Oh, please don't turn into a biter, I think. Biting is a deal-breaker for me. I mean biting, not hard nipping. I had a client once who unexpectedly bit me, and I'll never forget the feeling of his teeth actually slicing into my skin; it hurt like hell, and I screamed bloody murder. The man apologized up and down and swore it wouldn't happen again, but he still got himself blacklisted from the Agency. I had to have a tetanus shot.

Holmes seems to be keeping it reasonable, although there are a few spots that I know from experience that will show bruises tomorrow. If he starts to go for the neck, I'll ask him to stop; I can't have marks where they will show.

His intensity is ramping up again now, and I can feel the length of his body pressing against mine, hard, though the cloth of his undershirt and pants. His tongue is exploring the curve of my ear in a very delicate way, alternating with hard nips, and I have my face buried in the mattress, trying not to moan. My ears are a huge erogenous zone for me; I can almost come just from what he's doing right now, and I am working to keep myself distracted. I don't orgasm with clients, not for reals, that's just how I keep the boundaries in place. Right now, though, it's taking an act of will to keep from toppling over the edge.

I hear a faint ringing noise, growing louder. It goes on and on, stops for a moment or two, then goes on and on again. Holmes doesn't seem aware of it at first, then he raises his head and growls,_ "Bugger it!"_

He leaps off me, and hurries over to where his clothing is. My face is still buried in the mattress, but I hear him, slightly breathless, snap,_ "What is it?"_ and there is the tinny murmur of a man's voice. _"The treadmill, of course!"_ Holmes answers primly.

I can't believe Holmes is answering his phone. It happens; I had one old fart who continued to gently slide in and out of my arse whilst chatting with his wife about the grocery list. It was surreal, but I suppose it had as much to do with his need to be a naughty boy as anything else.

But Holmes goes to such lengths to set the scene and enjoy himself in such a specific way, it's hard to believe he would even leave his phone on, much less answer it right in the middle of things. The caller must be important, then, but Holmes is talking to him in a very familiar way. I wonder if it's his boyfriend.

_"Well, what do you expect me to do about it?"_ Long pause. _"I'm not a magician, Sherlock. In any case it's late, there's nothing I can do at the moment."_ Pause. Exasperated sigh. _"Oh, all right. Yes. I'll see to it myself."_ There is a beep as he hangs up, and a long groan.

And I hear him getting dressed. He's leaving? I crank my head around to catch a glimpse of the other end of the room and sure enough, Holmes is getting dressed, quickly, and obviously with great annoyance. He'd better not forget about me. I don't want to shout out, not in the mood he seems to be in, but I don't want to be stuck here until the maid comes in the morning, either. I wait until he's got his shoes tied and is slipping his coat on, and then I quietly call out, _"Um, help?_"

He looks up, surprised. Yep, he had forgotten all about me._ "Oh, good lord. So sorry."_ He hurries over and unsnaps one of my wrists from the bedpost. _"Family emergency."_ And, whoosh, he's gone.

I unsnap the rest of my tethers and lay sprawled on the bed for a minute, listening to the Handel rippling away on the stereo. Despite the interruption, I am still so turned on that I feel shaky. My god, what that man was doing to my ears. I am simply going to have to take care of myself right now, this minute. I wish I had some of my favorite solo toys with me, but I can certainly make do with my own hands.

I sit up to fluff the pillows strewn about the bed to make a comfortable nest, and as I do so, my eye falls on the coat tree in the corner by the door.

He forgot his umbrella. It suddenly occurs to me how much that stylish whanghee handle resembles one of my favorite g-spot toys. It really does, with it's knobby ridges, and curve - some differences in angle and size, but really, not much. Not much different at all...and the length of the shaft would give some wicked leverage...

I feel a little sorry for any woman who hasn't learned to love her g-spot; it's like discovering you have an extra clit! The trick is to be thoroughly turned on, so hot you can't hardly think straight, before you start to give it the deep-pressure stroking that feels so incredible.

And I'm there, right now. I go get the black umbrella off the coat tree, smiling a wicked smile as I heft the handle in my hand. Oh, yes, this is going to feel very nice.

It does.

I give myself a thumping good orgasm, pressing and rubbing that whanghee handle inside me against my g-spot; the ridges are absolutely perfect for the job, and it's so nice that I go for two more little ones...light, sighing waves. Heavenly.

I sprawl back on the pillows, reveling in the afterglow. When my legs have stopped wobbling, I strip off the harness and cuffs and wander into the bathroom to clean up. A hot bubble bath sounds lovely, and the tub is a huge claw-foot affair with gilded taps and fluffy towels, screaming pure decadence. I take the umbrella in with me to give it a good washing, but after the bath I decide that I'm not giving it back. I have a feeling that if M. Holmes knew what use it had been put to, he might not want it back. He seems the type. So, I think I'll add it to my toy box at home.

Giggling at the thought, I open the umbrella and prop it in a corner to dry, and climb back into the huge bed to snuggle down under the covers. The silly man paid for the room for the night, so I might as well have the use of it; I'll be cleared out before the maid service arrives in the morning.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four: "All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts." ~ William Shakespeare, "As You Like It"

I keep hearing a faint noise that sounds like my phone. I roll over, burrowing under a soft coverlet, but I can still hear it. Oh, hell, it IS my phone. Staggering out of the four-poster bed, I go over to the side-table where I parked my bag and paw through it. My phone stops ringing, then starts again, and I sleepily answer it.

_"Angel!"_ The woman's voice is both angry and full of concern. _"Angel, are you all right?"_

_"Yeah,_" I mumble. What the hell time is it anyway?_ "Yeah, I'm okay..."_

_"You did not text in after your meeting."_ My manager's voice is cold as ice. "_I have been trying to get in touch with you for an hour. What happened?"_

_"The client left, and I fell asleep...I'm really sorry!"_ And that's the truth, I am sorry. I don't like making people angry.

Stiffly, she says,_ "I would appreciate it if you could possibly remember to text in after successful completion of each assignment, as you are supposed to. I hope you have not also forgotten that you have a lunch meeting Friday-today, that is! As well as a GFE in the evening. Do you need me to repeat the particulars?"_

_"No, ma'am, I have them written down. I won't forget,_" I yawn, covering my mouth so she won't hear.

_"Angel,_" her voice softens a bit, _"this is not the time to be lax about your personal safety. We have our little protocols for good reason, please take them seriously, will you?"_

_"Yes, ma'am. I will."_

_"Good night, then."_ Click.

I wish I knew her name; I feel like a schoolgirl calling her "ma'am" all the time, but I can understand why the managers at the Agency insist on anonymity. The laws regarding prostitution in this country are so messed up, that neither I nor my clients are doing anything illegal - but the agency that brokers the deal and makes my appointments, is. Go figure.

Well, I can either go back to bed here, or call for a minicab and go home...decisions, decisions...that bed is just too inviting. I set the alarm on my phone for a reasonable time, and tumble back in.

# # #

It's raining miserably in the morning as I leave the hotel, and I am quite glad to have that big, black umbrella with me. I hope Holmes has a spare one so he won't have to go without. I arrive back at the flat in a real downpour, and wet to the knees just from the splashes. I'm going to be so mad if this silk dress is ruined...I'll have to see what miracles the dry-cleaner can do.

Pablo runs over miaowing when I get in the door, but he declines to rub against my legs when he realizes how wet I am. There is a note from my sister on the kitchen table; she wasn't home last night either, it seems. She's been staying over at what's-his-name's place off-and-on all week, probably avoiding me after our little row on Monday. Whatever.

I feed the cat and myself, and I'm just settled in over a nice, hot mug of tea when Sara calls. I almost don't bother to answer, but change my mind at the last minute. She doesn't even bother to say hello, but clips out, _"Turn on the television. You need to see the morning news."_

_"Why, hallo and good morning to you, too, sister dear!"_ I chirp at her, fake-cheerful.

_"Just turn on the damn telly,"_ she snarls, and hangs up.

I put the phone down slowly. I really don't want to, but I go and turn on the morning news.

Another escort was murdered last night. Shot in the head on her way home, just like Calypso, in a cab, in the middle of the night, and not too far from Kensington. No name given, not even her working name, so I can't tell if I know her or not. God, that could have been me! If I had taken a cab home last night, I might've gone by that way.

They have a drawing of the shooter, taken from descriptions given by the drivers, and it looks like police drawings always do - so generic it could be anybody. The picture shows a white male with a dark beard, glasses, and a dark hoodie drawn up tight around his face. Right. The beard and glasses are probably fake, and how many men with dark hoodies are in this city? Several thousand?

The sound bite of an interview with the Met detective is the usual vague no comment, no comment, several good leads but no comment at this time. Can't blame them for not wanting to tip their hand.

And then come the man-on-the-street reaction interviews, and I can't believe it. I want to reach through the screen and slap the smugness off the faces of a couple of them, particularly the arsehole who shrugs and says, _"Well, at least somebody is taking it on themselves to get the rubbish off the streets."_ Unbelievable. Unbe-fucking-lievable.

# # #

I am still fuming when it comes time for my lunch meeting, and I have to spend a few minutes alone in the ladies' room before I can face my client. Sometimes, when I'm just not feeling it, I have to psych myself up to get through a meeting. I learned a few techniques in acting class that really help you to focus on calling up the feeling you need to project, the person you need to be for that circumstance. I need to be charming for the next hour or so, because this client is actually more interested in my companionship than my body. Strange, but it does happen.

The restaurant we're at, One Twenty One Two, is a foodie haven, and this client, "Mr. Jacobs," loves to take escorts here so he can enjoy pleasant company with his meal, and show off his culinary knowledge to someone who will act as if they appreciate it. He's actually very nice, if a bit tedious, but he's paying me to pay attention so I have to have my head straight. The Gloucestershire Old Spots Pork Belly with Cumberland sauce for starters is delicious, but it leads into nearly twenty minutes of lecture on hog breeds and breed conservancy, and how modern breeding is destroying the finesse of fine English pork. I have a hard time not yawning.

By the time we are to the Kent Apple and Blackberry Crumble, and the lecture on heirloom apples and how modern apple varieties are soulless and evil, I am ready to scream. It's a relief when "Mr. Jacobs" breaks with routine and delicately asks if I would mind giving him a massage and "some special attention" with the time remaining. I'm definitely game, and after agreeing how much of a tip is required for the extras, we retire to a room at the hotel above.

I have strong hands, and I've been told I give an excellent massage. The blow job isn't too shabby either, and "Mr. Jacobs" goes back to work, wherever he works, with a smile on his face.

I have the rest of the afternoon to kill before I have to get ready for my evening assignment, so I decide to hit the gym and work off some of that heavy lunch from the One Twenty, and I also vow to avoid looking at any more news about the latest shooting. I don't want to feel sluggish tonight, or depressed. A GFE can be very demanding.

GFE stands for Girl Friend Experience, and it's basically going out on a paid date. It's always an over-night, although exactly what you do depends on the client and what he likes-it might be an opera, it might be a nightclub, it might be a rugby game. Whatever it is, you have to act like you are having the time of your life. It always ends up back at the client's place, with sex and cuddles and back-rubs and pillow-talk in varying amounts.

This GFE will be a little different because, according to my manager, the client wants a sexual experience "in an unusual environment." Now, there is an interesting phrase...in an elevator? In an alley? On a bus? I've done it in all those places, but we'll have to see what this fellow means by "unusual," and if it's something I want to go along with.

# # #

It turns out that his idea of "unusual" is pretty outrageous. He wants to stand-up shag in various places, in plain sight, and jump into his car and drive off before the police arrive to arrest us for indecency! I laugh and tell him he's completely mad, but he promises me a big tip if I'll play along - and to bail me out and pay my fines if we get caught. I give it a few moments and decide, what the hell? It's certainly something different.

I am definitely not feeling into it tonight, but my acting skills carry the day - or night, as it were. My client, "Bobby," is young and good-looking, a Canadian by his accent, although I don't ask. We don't ask personal details, it's part of the protocol. He is obviously just visiting London, though, and wants a tour guide as much as a partner in crime. After a late dinner at a small, exclusive club I've never even heard of, we take off in a little hired Mercedes to do his dream-tour of the City. He has a bucket-list of the usual tourist spots, plus some others. Thank goodness the rain has cleared off, and it's a very mild night.

"Bobby" parks the car as close as possible to the target site, and we get out and stroll hand-in-hand like lovers. When he gives me the high sign, I hoist the hem of my dress up a bit, he undoes his zipper, grabs my bum and we go at it for a few minutes, oblivious to onlookers, then stroll back to the car. Well, in one case, we have to run for the car - we didn't know there would be a policeman in Trafalgar Square just then.

My client is having the time of his life, whooping and laughing as we zoom around. I am having to work at acting like I am having a good time, but he is too excited to notice, I think. I do like knowing that I am going to be part of this guy's once-in-a-lifetime memories, though. I even let him take a few selfies with his phone, although the Agency frowns on photos. All in all, it's okay. But then, at the third stop, I notice something that makes my gut clench up: The security cameras are moving.

All the tourist spots that we visit have CCTV cameras, and I realize that they are swiveling around to focus on us every time we stop. I mean, when was the last time you saw one move? They never move. They are just there, right? But tonight, the cameras move, following us. It's not like what we are doing is blackmail-worthy or even very graphic; we're not even exposing ourselves, technically. But the cameras are definitely following us.

I point it out to "Bobby" and he is skeptical, maintaining that those CCTV cameras are mostly dummies anyway, and only meant to scare people into behaving. Maybe in Toronto, I tell him, but not here; he still laughs it off, so I decide to let it go and not get my knickers in a knot over it. After all, it's got to be him they are watching, not me. I'm a nobody, whilst he is obviously stinking rich.

We hit all the places on "Bobby's" list over the course of a few hours, but we don't see one single cop after the one we flushed out in Trafalgar Square. However, we are followed by security cameras the whole time; I'm sure that even the ones in the lobby of his posh hotel are following us as we finally head back at the end of the night, but that could be paranoia talking. Up in his room, we put on a movie and I pull some massage oil out of my overnight bag, and give him a little back-rub. He is passed out, snoring, in minutes.

I tap out a quick text to my manager then, although on a GFE it's technically not required. I'm still trying to make up for last night, I know. Then I snuggle down with "Bobby" the Mad Canuck, and wonder why he doesn't have a real girlfriend to share nights like tonight with, why the bloody cameras were so interested in us, who it was that got shot last night, and if anybody is going to get killed tonight. And I'm grateful that I am here with this snoring lump, who is going to tip me outrageously tomorrow.

# # #

My mad Canadian is disappointed in the morning that I won't extend the GFE for the rest of the weekend. The money he offers is tempting, and I'm flattered that he wants to spend more time with me, but frankly, I'm tired of him, and I have other plans for the day.

I do let him drop me off at the flat, though, because I want one more ride in that cute little Mercedes. He kisses me goodbye, just as if I were really a girlfriend, and he tells me he'll see me later. Right. But he comes through on the tip he promised me, and then some, so the happy hug I give him in return is definitely genuine.

Sara is home doing her Saturday chores, fighting with the washer-dryer in our tiny laundry room, and giving me the I'm-not-really-talking-to-you-yet treatment; she'll acknowledge my presence, but not give me any eye contact or respond in anything other than monosyllables. It's so stupid, but we do it all the time. She gets mad at me for being selfish or too demanding or whatever, and she'll stay snippy forever until I win her over again. I don't know why we have to do it this way, but we do.

Since I've had two clients give me unexpectedly generous tips, I decide to start out by stroking her in the wallet. Nice and direct, guaranteed to help change anybody's mind about you.

_"Hey, I came into some extra cash, and I haven't forgotten that I owe you. Here._" I peel off some bills and hold them out to her. Sara looks suspiciously at them, and at me, and goes back to fiddling with the door on the washer-dryer, trying to get it latched just right so the thing will work.

_"You don't owe me any money,"_ she says stubbornly. The door finally clicks locked, and water begins to run. She pours in the laundry suds.

_"Yes, I do. For groceries, and my half of the electric, and the cab fare I had to borrow two months ago. It adds up. Seriously, I've been keeping track."_

Sara gives me a look only an older sister can deliver, and takes the money. _"You never keep track,"_ she says, but she folds up the peace offering and puts it in her jeans pocket. Now she'll let me apologize.

I subtly slip into the posture of juvenile contrition, hands in pockets, head down and slightly tilted, eyes glancing tentatively between my toes and her face. I don't know why it works, but it does. Well, it works with Sara, anyway. _"Sairs, I'm sorry I was so snarky to you the other morning. I didn't mean it to come out so sarcastic. I'm lucky that you care."_

She wrinkles her nose at me._ "Don't lay it on too thick, it taints the sincerity. And I'm sorry, too."_

And just like that, it's all just fine. In a few minutes, we are sitting in the kitchen and gossiping over tea and biscuits. Sara is amused and aghast by turns at my escapades last night; she squeals over and over,_ "Oh, my god, you didn't! Ack!"_ I don't mention the security cameras, but then Sara doesn't bring up the third murder, either. It's nice to feel connected to her again; we don't have a lot of other family left.

We get around to plans for the weekend, and I mention that I've taken today off to go to Buckinghamshire.

"_Oh? What's there?"_

I give her a wicked grin. _"I'm crashing a wedding at Stoke Park."_

_"Oh, my god, Angelica Elizabeth Talbot! You can't just go and show up at a wedding! That's rude!"_

_"They'll hardly notice me, I'll be quiet as a mouse."_

_"You're spying on someone, aren't you?"_ Sara presses her lips together and makes that big-sister face again._ "You aren't going obsessive again, are you? You remember what happened-"_

_"It's not like that, not at all. And that was ages ago, I was just a teenager!"_ Well, nineteen; that still counts, doesn't it?

_"Just don't be a stalker, okay? People don't like it. You don't want to get threatened with a restraining order again, do you?"_

_"Nobody's going to have to threaten me with anything, Sara._" Because I'm a lot more sly about it these days, I silently add.

# # #

Later, on the train, I finally make myself take out the newspaper that I stowed in my big shoulder-bag and read the write-up on what they're now calling "The Call-Girl Killer." I'm glad that they've dropped the whole Jack-the-Ripper thing, because there's no resemblance outside of the victims being sex workers. The media can be so moronic.

The latest victim is still not being identified by name, but I'm relieved to see that I don't recognize her from the photo. It's another glamor shot from an escort agency gallery, she's in black leather and biting a riding crop; apparently she was a specialist. The article has several photos of the other two victims as well, and sure as anything they printed the sleaziest ones they could find. They even managed to find photos that make classy Calypso look like a slut-the subliminal message being, "See, these are fallen women, they are bad girls, but good girls are safe. You're safe, because you're not like Them." Bastards. But what do you expect? They want to sell more papers, and will do whatever it takes. The media don't set the tastes and standards of society; they just pander to it.

Lost in my ruminations, I'm at Stoke Park before I know it. Now, let's talk about pandering. The resort is an elegant, elite, 300-acre world unto itself. It's a beautiful, bright summer day, and the flower gardens around the grounds are spectacular; the air is heavy with the smell of roses as I walk toward the wide steps of the main entry. Gorgeous place. I really enjoyed my long weekend foursome here last autumn - although I was technically working, it was more like a vacation punctuated by long bouts of very creative sex. I learned a lot. Among other things, I learned my way around the place.

I've timed my arrival perfectly, because there is a flood of guests arriving for the three o'clock wedding, the only event here today. I'm dressed very simply and elegantly, in black slacks, high-heeled sandals, and a bright blue silk shirt, with lots of big curls in my hair so I look "done up" enough to blend in with the high-class clientele despite my low-key makeup.

I merge in with the crowd, and effortlessly flow with them into the main building, the Mansion, and the whole group is funneled toward the west wing. This is a big crowd, so the nuptials will probably take place outdoors on the Fountain Terrace, with the wedding breakfast in the Fountain Room itself. I was counting on this being a big, noisy crowd, and it is; all the better to hide in. No sign of Holmes yet, but he likely is already here. I think somebody who doesn't like to be touched would rather be early and wait than arrive with the crowd.

Once I'm in the west wing, I flit down a hallway toward the kitchen and duck into the staff toilet. Securing the door, I open my big shoulder bag and pull out a plain black button-front shirt and black sneakers. Into the bag goes the silk shirt and high heels, and in minutes I am wearing the uniform that the serving staff at Stoke Park wear - trim, solid black from head to toe. Off comes the jewelry, and my hair goes back into a severe coiled bun. Standing on the toilet seat, I can reach the plain panels of the hung ceiling, and I push one aside a bit, shoving my bag up there for safe keeping.

The only thing missing is the plastic name tag, but I might be able to nick one later. In the meantime, I will just take the dressing-down for "forgetting" it today. I check my look in the little mirror above the sink, and think that it will do nicely as a disguise. People simply do not notice servers at a function; there is too much else going on, too many distractions. Just in case, I shift my posture a little and slouch myself down like I never do in real life, to trim off a few inches of height.

I join the small army of servers setting things up in the Fountain Room, which commands a good view of the Terrace just outside through wide-open French doors. I am handed a basket of forks to place around, and as I do I crane my neck to look outside and see if I can locate Holmes amidst the milling guests as they are being seated.

It takes a few minutes, but I finally spot him. He is already seated on the groom's side, all the way to the back and on the outside row. He plainly doesn't want to be here; his legs and arms are crossed, and his face looks like he has just swallowed something vaguely unpleasant. He's wearing what looks to be a light grey suit with a subtle touch of rose, a pretty cerulean blue tie and a pale apricot pocket square. The effect is almost obnoxiously cheerful, and he kind of matches the blooming rose bush right beside him; deliberate? Hard to say. I don't get to watch too long; the head server comes and scolds me for staring at the guests, and for forgetting my name-tag, and for going too slowly. She puts me to folding extra serviettes, and I'm glad I don't work here for real.

By the time all the guests are seated for the ceremony, the Fountain Room set up is done and the staff withdraws to wait until it's over and they are needed to start serving reception drinks. I don't want to be hanging around and having to make chit-chat, so I duck out and find a window in the empty Ballroom that overlooks where Holmes is sitting. It's almost painful to watch him, he's hating it so much. During the ceremony, he takes out and checks his pocket watch about a dozen times, and shifts around so much he's nearly fidgeting. Finally, he just closes his eyes with a pained expression, and endures.

When the ceremony is over, the guests mill around again on the Terrace, and the servers trot around with trays of starters and drinks for the two hours until the wedding breakfast. This is the most ticklish time for me; I want to be near enough to Holmes to watch him, but I don't want to be near enough for him to see me.

It turns out to be easier than I thought, because he doesn't mingle around at all. Once he has a drink in his hand, Holmes is rooted in place, his back to a column on the shaded side of the Terrace. Although he has a haughty look, he greets everyone pleasantly who comes up to him - but with the kind of smile that shows his back teeth, if you know what I mean.

The shark with the grey mustache from Monday comes along, with a great deal of fuss and hearty greetings, and Holmes is icily civil in return; it looks to me that showing up at this event is a huge concession on Holmes' part, and he is not happy about it. Mustache-man is happy, though, almost gleeful. He keeps bringing people over and introducing them to Holmes, whose smile stretches tighter and tighter. If he had cat-ears, they would be pinned flat in annoyance, and there would be a constant low growl.

I lose track of my quarry for a while then, because the head server ties into me again for gawking, and I actually have to go hoist some trays around. When I have a chance to look for him again, he isn't by the column any longer, but I see a flash of light grey going up the outside steps into the still-empty Ballroom. What's he up to? The bathrooms are the other way. It would be too obvious for me to follow through the door, but the Ballroom has tall windows all along it's length. I can probably get a vantage point from the side garden to see inside without being too visible myself. My black clothes don't exactly blend in with green foliage in broad daylight, but the hedge is pretty thick there.

I hope none of the staff spot me, because I don't have a good cover story in mind at all for why I am creeping around in the garden. At least I can't be seen from the Terrace.

When I glimpse Holmes again, he is sitting in a straight chair in an alcove at the far side of the Ballroom, facing out the window, but his eyes are closed. He just sits there, motionless, with his hands pressed together palm-to-palm, long fingertips parked just under his nose. He looks like he's praying, but he hasn't struck me as the religious sort at all. Maybe he's meditating?

After a few minutes, he opens his eyes to gaze out over the gardens, his face expressionless. I don't dare move, because nothing draws the eye like sudden movement. I stay perfectly still, waiting for him to turn away from the window, or close his eyes again, so I can sneak away. It seems like forever, but he finally lowers his hands and turns away from the window, and I am off like a shot out of the hedges and back toward the Terrace. I almost get collared by the head server, but a story comes tumbling out of my mouth about a little dog lost on the grounds this morning, and how I thought I had seen it in the hedges. Incredibly, she buys it, and I trot back to "work."

The crowd on the Terrace is thinning out now, it's time for the receiving line in the Great Hall, and then people will be seated for the wedding breakfast in the Fountain Room. I feel like it's time for me to exit, stage right, because I don't think I can avoid Holmes spotting me serving during the meal. Besides, I'm really tired of that head server.

Back in the staff toilet, my bag is still secure up in the ceiling where I left it. It takes just a few moments to change, and to fluff my hair back into a mane of curls. A quick re-do on my makeup, and I'm away through the Oval Room and though the lobby and headed toward the front door. As I pass the reception desk, though, I nearly run bang into a pretty brunette going the other way - we do the Pardon Me dance and walk on, but as I'm going down the marble steps of the main entrance, it dawns on me that I've seen that woman before. It was Ms. Black Dress, the woman who questioned me when I was trying to cruise by Holmes's office.

I want to be paranoid, but I'm not going to indulge myself. She probably knows Mustache-Man, they obviously work in the same building, so that's why she's here. Of course.

It takes a while to get home to my flat, with several bus and train changes along the way, and I have plenty of time to think about my little excursion. I'm totally convinced now that Holmes isn't a multiple at all, any more than I am. He looked to me like a very introverted person trying to cope with an extrovert world. The way he needed to withdraw to center himself is a classic introvert thing. His reaction to the other people was interesting, though; could he be clinically misanthropic, too? That's interesting, I should look up more on narcissistic personality disorders, because I think misanthropy is related.

It's well past six o'clock when I finally get home, and since I refuse to eat the nastiness that they serve at the stations, I'm starving. I rummage around the kitchen to see what I can find for tea. Sara is obviously out with her boyfriend, because she didn't cook anything tonight and leave me a plate.

Eventually I realize that unless I want to open a tin of Pablo's horrid fish bits, I am going to have to make a trip to the shop, or order take-away, or something. I hate having to make decisions when I'm over-hungry, my brain just doesn't work without fuel.

I want a salad, a nice, big Salade Nicoise, the way I make it. Definitely means a run to the shop, but I don't mind waiting to eat now that I know exactly what I want. My clothes are wrinkled and smell like a bus, so I change into a snug, short leather skirt and a plain white t-shirt, and some comfortable shoes. I don't even take a bag, since my keys, wallet, and phone fit in the skirt pockets, and the nearest grocery is only a few blocks away.

It's a Saturday night, and there are quite a few people out and about, enjoying the rare summer evening. I'm striding along quickly, letting my long legs do their thing, when I notice a group of people standing in front of an electronic marquee sign at a bank. They are making what-is-it noises, and as I draw near, I can see why.

Instead of the time and temperature and messages about the bank services, the red dots are spelling out, **Good evening, Angelica Talbot.** The letters flash, and then crawl across the screen, then flash again, over and over.

My first thought is, who on earth would play a prank like this? Sara is my best friend, but I have a lot of other people that I hang out with when the mood strikes me-and none of them could do this. I don't know anybody who could do this. The bank's not even open right now. My phone rings, and I pull it out and see that it's an unidentified caller. I don't answer those, so I flip the "ignore" button and pocket it again.

I walk quickly on, very unsettled. This has got to be a prank, but I can't fathom who could pull it off, or would want to bother. I round the corner into the next block, and there is another electronic marquee, on another bank building. This one flashes orange, and the crawling letters spell out, **You ought to answer your phone, Miss Talbot.**

My phone starts ringing again, and my gut goes liquid with pure fear. This is - too much. Who the hell is playing games with me? Is it the killer? Did he do this to Calypso and the other girls before he stalked them down and shot them? I shut off the ringer on my phone, and start looking for possible escapes, my mind racing as my legs continue striding mechanically down the sidewalk. The orange dots on the marquee above me go black for a moment, then light up with, **Get in the car, Angelica.** A sleek black saloon glides up beside and just ahead of me, and a rear door opens out.


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five: "The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances; if there is any reaction, both are transformed." ~ C.G. Jung

Get into the car? Like hell I will. I will not go gentle into that good night! The liquid fear in my stomach contracts into hard anger, and I ignore the car, swerving to the left and away from it, and keep on striding. The crazy bastard will have to get out and drag me if he wants me in that car, and there are too many other people about on the street to make that a good option. I methodically scan the buildings, the street, other pedestrians, looking for a likely escape. There's always a way out, Daddy used to say, you just have to have the brains to see it, and the guts to try.

Luck is with me, because there is a small herd of rough but fit young men coming down the sidewalk right towards me. They look like they might be builders or a road crew or something; they are all eying me as we draw near each other, and smiling appreciatively. I slow down and smile back even more appreciatively, picking out the tallest and broadest, most alpha-looking of them to zero in on.

_Johnny!_" I exclaim in my best happy-sex-kitten voice. _"Is that you? It's been ages! God, you look great, honey!" _I grab his arm and spin him toward me, pressing my leather-clad thigh against his in a _very_ friendly way. He smiles, pleased but confused, and tells me I must be mistaken, his name is Matt.

_"Oh, how could I forget something like that! Wow, that's embarrassing...but you know, I could never forget your face-or other things." _I give him a teasing smile, and, linking arms with him and one of his mates, ask, _"Are you boys headed to the pub? Can I come along, please? I'm absolutely desperate for some fun tonight!" _

They are indeed headed for the pub, and they seem all too pleased to have me come along. Like I've said before, people very rarely object to a beautiful, friendly young woman joining the party.

Arm-in-arm with two brawny males, and surrounded by two more in close attendance, I feel protected, although I know it's just an illusion of safety. Once we get to the pub, I'll have to figure out my next move, but I feel certain that the maniac who is after me isn't going to try anything at the moment.

There are no more mysterious messages spelled out in glowing dots as we head for the pub. Matt has slipped his arm smoothly around my waist, taking possession. I chat him up in vague circles as he tries to figure out where he knows me from, how deep our acquaintance goes, and if he is likely to get the chance to renew it tonight. I'm careful to seem neither desperate nor disinterested.

The pub is the usual kind for our neighborhood-pleasant enough, clean enough, nothing special. It's busy, and there aren't any tables left with a good view of the soccer game on the television, so my boys take control of one end of the bar. One of them finds me a padded stool to park myself on, and Matt takes the only other vacant one, his arm still around me. I'm not fond of beer, so I ask for a cider, and sip it sparingly. I can't afford to dull my wits one bit, and on an empty stomach to boot. The boys are quickly and loudly immersed in the soccer game, and Matt wastes no time sliding his hand down from my waist to cup my hip in his beefy hand. I nestle into him just a little, pretending to watch the game, and try to figure out what to do.

I can't go home. I can't stay here more than a few hours. I could, obviously, go home with Matt, but whoever was messing with the marquees and my phone might be waiting outside to follow me wherever I might try to go. And there's the big question-who was doing that? They obviously wanted to scare me, and succeeded pretty damn well at it. Why would the killer go to those lengths to terrorize me?

What if he was trying to intimidate me into silence about something? Could I have some link with Calypso and the others? We might have had a client in common somewhere along the line, learned something that we shouldn't have... I need help figuring this out...

I glance down from the game to see two very broad men in dark suits bearing down on our little party. They look grim, and I have no doubt that they are here for me. Ignoring all objections, the men push their way through the crowd, and one grabs hold of me. _"Miss Talbot, you need to come with us."_ His voice is flat and official, and I absolutely panic when I feel his hand close on my arm. Shrinking back against Matt, I emit the most girly-girl scream you can imagine.

Matt lunges to his feet, shouting, _"Get off her!"_ and sucker-punches the suit-man in the face. The suit staggers back against his partner, falls, and all hell breaks lose as Matt's mates dive in to help him. I duck out of the way, and, like my friends and I always did when there was a pub fight, run into the ladies' room to hide.

Well, not exactly hide. I need to get out of here, and fast, because the outcome of the brawl is far from certain-those suits didn't look like pushovers.

There is a little window up high on one wall, propped open with a brick to provide some ventilation. I drag the wastebasket over so I can tip it upside-down and use it as a stool, and I'm able to force the window open far enough so I can squeeze out of it, and drop to the ground outside.

Now what? I'm standing in a darkening alley filled with trash and weeds, and not completely sure where I am-I don't have a terribly good sense of direction-nor where I should go.

I can't just stand here. I spot a rusty fire escape a few feet away, and a quick glance up tells me that it's intact, and goes all the way to the roof. I don't think they will expect me to go up, so I go up. The building is only four stories high, and it doesn't take me long to get to the roof and climb up over the ledge, looking down and behind me as I go. No sign of the suits, or anybody else.

I lie panting on the sharp gravel covering the rooftop and work to get control of myself again. Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic. Panic makes you stupid.

Right. People are after me, and they may be dangerous. It might be somebody who has already murdered three other women. I could be his next target. I need help.

I sit up, making sure that this doesn't make me visible from the ground, and pull out my phone. I don't know what people did before there were satellite navigation apps, but they are a godsend for people like me. The little pulsing blue arrow shows me where I am, and a pin shows me where I want to be going, and a blue line plots out the best route for me to take to get there. What a wonderful thing. I silently bless the nerds who have made this possible, and start moving in the direction it points me.

I follow from roof to roof until I run out of them, and then go down another fire escape to the street level to keep on following the blue line on my phone's map. I run into a huge snag, however, and that is the black saloon-it keeps circling around me, ahead on every corner. I have to keep dodging down alleys and one-ways to avoid it, but then it pops up again like a bad penny.

How the hell are they able to follow me? My path through the streets is like a drunk's wanderings, but the black car is pacing me, waiting at every turn. It's like they know exactly where I am, all the time.

I look at the wonderful phone in my hand, and the little pulsing blue arrow. Damn. If emergency services can lock onto a phone's signal, it means others could do it, too, I bet. It's got to be my phone, nothing else makes sense. I should chuck it into a bin, but I don't want to-it's too expensive to replace! Besides, I love my phone...

Right, plan B: My traitorous navigation app shows me where the nearest Underground station is, just a few blocks away. I take back alleys and cross-cuts at a flat run, to get there before they can guess where I'm headed, and I bolt down the steps like a rabbit down a hole. Ha! Follow me here, black car, I dare you. And, I've never had my phone get signal underground, so I don't think they'll be able to track me.

Riding the tube will actually take longer than getting there on foot, but it will get me almost to the doorstep of my destination, and it's nice to sit down for a while. A nervous wreck, I huddle on the seat and watch the lights flash by outside the window, and examine each new arrival on the brightly-lit train, poised to run like hell if they look at all menacing to me. It's the Underground on a Saturday night, so there are plenty of people who look menacing in general, but none take much notice of me.

There's no sign of the black car as I exit the station at St. James Park, and I glance at the clock as I go up the steps. It's been nearly three hours since I left the flat to run down to the shop! Feels like a lifetime ago.

In a few minutes I am walking into the reception lobby of the Metropolitan Police, and I finally feel almost safe.

# # #

Half an hour later, my hands are wrapped around a cup of weak tea in a styrofoam cup, and I am sprawled back in a faintly-sticky vinyl chair in a small, empty waiting room, waiting for a D.I. to come take a statement from me. I don't know who is going to be on duty at ten o'clock on a Saturday night, probably somebody with no family life; Daddy never worked weekends if he could help it, even before Mummy passed away. Thinking about him makes my eyes prick with tears-I still miss him horribly at times, like right now. Especially, right now. I drain the rest of my tea, and lean my head back with a sigh. I wish I could bum a cigarette, but I couldn't smoke it in here anyway.

_"Miss Talbot?"_ I look up to see a female constable in uniform, and a plainclothes male come in. They are both middle-aged, with greying hair; the man is probably the D.I. His looks and mannerisms remind me powerfully of my father, and I straighten up in my chair and give them a relieved smile. _"That's me,"_ I say.

The constable takes a seat beside me, resting a clipboard on her knee, and the plainclothes drags a straight-backed chair over and turns it around, straddling it and leaning his arms on the back. I instantly like him even more for this, because that was one of Daddy's habits as well.

_"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade,"_ he says, _"and this is Constable Merrill. We'd like to hear what happened to you tonight, but first I need you to clarify something very important for me. Is it true that you knew all three women who were murdered this past weekend?"_

"No," I shake my head. _"I told them at the front desk, I knew only one personally, Calypso-I mean, Alice Potts. I didn't know the others, but we are all-I mean, um, I'm...we are all in the same business. Colleagues."_ I'm not usually so awkward about my job, but talking to D.I. Lestrade feels weirdly like talking to my father, and the words just will not come out smoothly.

The detective and the constable exchange glances. I fiddle with my foam cup and wait.

_"Okay, so you might have...professional connections with these ladies that you wouldn't necessarily be aware of? Is that it?"_

I nod, and take a deep breath. _"Yes. That's what I'm afraid of. That's what is so frightening about those men coming for me, and the car, and the messages on the bank marquees..."_

The D.I. frowns slightly, and I can tell he has doubts about my story. _"Yeah, I want to hear all that as well, but first-" _ He is interrupted by a young constable who hurries into the room, and tells him that here is an urgent phone call. Excusing himself, Lestrade leaves for a few moments, and comes back looking both puzzled and annoyed; exasperated, even. He stands in the doorway looking at me with his arms folded across his chest, then shakes his head and motions for the policewoman to come with him. _"I need you out here for a minute, Merrill. You,"_ he points at me with a commanding look, _"you, stay put."_

Alone once more, I lean my head back and close my eyes. I'm incredibly tired. This has been an exhausting day, and I just want to go home and take a hot bath, and maybe read some poetry to Pablo before I go to sleep. I haven't done that in ages, he probably thinks I don't love him anymore. What is taking these cops so long?

When Lestrade and Merrill come back in, their movements are guarded, and I instantly know that something is seriously wrong. It is, because following close behind them are the two suits that tried to take me from the pub! One of them has a plaster on his cheek, and the other has a cut and swollen lip. Both look very, very cross.

I sit bolt upright, my stomach clenching in fear, and look helplessly at Lestrade as the angry suits each grab an arm and hoist me to my feet. As one of them expertly snaps handcuffs on my wrists, I shout out, _"Why are you letting them do this? I haven't done anything wrong, why are you letting them do this? You're supposed to help me!"_ I'm embarrassed to realize that I have tears running down my face, and I look helplessly into Lestrade's dark eyes as I am frog-marched out of the room. His lips tighten, and he turns his face away.

I'm offering up no resistance, but the suits are still rough as they haul me down to the parking garage where the black saloon is waiting. I'm unceremoniously shoved into the back, with a suit seated on either side, and the car takes off into the nighttime traffic.

I can feel the tears drying on my cheeks, and I'm retardedly glad that I wore waterproof mascara and liner tonight. Isn't that ridiculous? But I hate having makeup streaks down my face, it looks awful.

I calm down enough to take in my surroundings, and I realize that the car is being driven by a woman. I can see the back of her dark hair, but not her face; she has the rear mirror tilted up. The other front seat is empty. We are on a motorway, headed away from the city. I doubt it would be useful to ask any of these people what is going on, so I don't bother.

The look on Lestrade's face as I was dragged off was telling; it wasn't his idea at all for the suits to take me away. And he seemed very annoyed when he came back from answering the phone call. So, the D.I. wanted to keep me at the station, but someone went over his head, someone with greater authority. Government?

I glance sideways at both of the large men sitting on either side of me. They certainly look government. And that could explain the bank signs.

Okay, so why would MI5 or any of the other security services be interested in me? Have I had a meeting recently with someone who is on their bad side? A foreign operative, or a traitor? My mad Canadian! Those CCTV cameras following us, all night long...

But, really, flashing messages on bank marquees is so theatrical. What kind of secret service does that to get your attention? Why didn't they just come knocking at my door and take me away?

It takes me a few minutes to reach the obvious: They, whoever "they" are, want to intimidate me. So, they want something from me, and they think the best way to get it is through fear.

The problem is, it's working. Despite my higher brain now grasping that all this has just been the tactics of intimidation, my monkey-brain is still just about to soil herself in terror. I close my eyes, and concentrate on calming the monkey down.

# # #

The car finally pulls up inside a deserted factory or warehouse or something, just the sort of place where people in films get beaten and tortured by the baddies. Wonderful. I feel like I could throw up, except that I haven't eaten all day and there's nothing in there. One of the suits gets out of the car, then reaches in and hauls me out by an arm; the guy still inside is getting an eyeful, because my short leather skirt rides up almost to my waist as I scramble to get out without my arm getting dislocated.

When I'm out, the suit has to stand me up by force, because my legs are so wobbly I can't find my feet. The place stinks of chemicals and wet concrete, and it's dim except for a small bank of floodlights about fifty feet away. The suit spins me in the direction of the lights, and shoves me forward. _"Walk."_

My legs get steadier as I go, and I stand up straighter. Whatever it is over there, I'm not going to face it crawling and crying. My hands are still cuffed in front of me, but I put my shoulders back, tug my skirt down, and try to conjure up at least a shadow of confidence and a shred of dignity.

The floodlights aren't really that bright, but my eyes are dark-adapted right now, and I'm squinting and blinking to make out what-or whom-I am walking toward. As I get closer, I can make out the figure of a man. He's just standing there, waiting.

I stop five or six feet away, and study him quizzically. It's very odd, when you see a person out of context; you recognize them, yet you don't. I once saw the mum of a close friend of mine out on a bender at a nightclub, and it was the strangest feeling, quite a lot like how it feels right now to be running into Mycroft Holmes in a smelly, dark, deserted warehouse. I'm catapulted into an alternative universe, where dapper civil servants in immaculate pinstripe suits spring from nowhere.

He gives me a tight little smile, and hangs his umbrella on his arm to reach into an inner pocket of his suit jacket, and takes out a little notebook.

He opens it and looks down at a page. _"Angelica Elizabeth Talbot, age twenty-four. Parents, Elizabeth and Ernest Talbot, both deceased. Sister-" _

I take another step forward and ask, _"Why are you pretending to read from that notebook?" _ I'm not usually that cheeky, but this all feels so unreal, it's hard to take any of it seriously.

His mouth snaps shut, the book snaps shut, and he pockets the latter inside his coat with an irritated look.

_"You're eyes weren't moving," _I add defensively.

He narrows those eyes, and plants the black umbrella on the floor in front of him, both hands resting on the smooth handle. I'm not at all surprised to see that he did, indeed, have a spare.

_"You have been the cause of quite a lot of trouble tonight." _He pauses expectantly, but I'll be damned if I am going to apologize for running for my life. I just shrug. _"It would have saved all of us considerable effort if you had simply gotten into the car willingly." _

_"Why in the world would I do that?"_ I ask incredulously, and Holmes frowns.

_"You're a submissive. You are supposed to do as you are told."_

At that, I almost laugh out loud. _"Not when I'm off the clock!"_ Does he think that how I am at our meetings is who I really am? That's surprisingly naive.

He frowns more deeply, then his face smooths out. _"Quite. Well, here you are, in any case. You wanted to talk to me?" _he says, with a deadly sort of pleasantry.

I shake my head. _"Not that I'm aware of."_ What the hell is he getting at?

_"You do seem to have been trying to get my attention of late, albeit in terribly clumsy ways."/i_

I feel a blush creeping into my cheeks. Clumsy? Well, I guess I'm not so sly after all. _"Youthful exuberance?"_ I offer with a cheeky grin.

_"Childish stupidity!"_ he barks back. I bite my lip and stay silent.

_"So,"_ he continues with that creepy smoothness, _"who is paying you for information about me? Who is giving you instructions?"_

_"What? Nobody!"_ I am genuinely confused.

_"Then, why have you been trying to spy on me? Tell me!"_ He is looking at me so intently that I feel more naked now than when I when I stood before him in the hotel room.

I can't meet his eyes any longer, and so I focus on his hands holding the umbrella handle. I realize that he is gripping it so tightly that his knuckles are white. He must be really and truly angry. I feel a flutter of fear. I don't know what he is, but I am suddenly certain that Holmes is no minor civil servant. He really is a shark, and I am a terrified guppy.

_"Curiosity, I guess,"_ I say quietly to the umbrella.

_"Ah, the same which killed the cat?"_ he says nastily.

I shift my eyes back up again to his face, and he is sneering at me. Swim, guppy, swim. _"Well, they say that satisfaction brought her back."_

He makes a disgusted noise. _"Trite."_ Holmes tilts his head up, so he is looking down his nose at me through narrowed eyes._ "So, it is merely curiosity that drives you, then?"_ he says with heavy sarcasm.

I bite my lip and shake my head. Talking to the umbrella again, I say, _"No, it's more like...sometimes I get kind of obsessed. Like, I have to know everything I can...the questions take hold of me, and it's hard to know when to stop. I go too far."_ I shift my gaze back up to his face again, and he is completely inscrutable, a perfect poker-face.

_"You really have no idea what you have put your foot into, do you?"_ he murmurs, almost without moving his mouth, and I feel the back of my eyes sting with sudden hot tears.

I burst out, _"No! No, I don't know what I put my foot into! I don't have a single bloody idea! All I know is that I've been running for my life for hours and I'm exhausted! I thought that the serial killer was after me-"_

Holmes looks puzzled. _"What serial killer?"_

_"The one that's picking off call-girls! The one that's killing my friends!"_

_"Those murders are not being committed by a serial killer," _he scoffs.

_"How do you know? Do you know who it is?"_

Holmes gives me a scornful look. _"Of course I don't know who it is. There aren't enough data in the police reports to deduce it yet, and the Met do not have...additional help at the moment. But it's very obviously not the work of a serial killer." _He looks thoughtful. _"So, you believed your life to be in danger?"_

_"Yes!"_

_"And that's why you fled?"_

_"Yes."_

_"That was very stupid,"_ he says, matter-of-factly.

I shrug. _"We have a difference of opinion, then; I think it would've been stupid NOT to try and get away." _I look at his hands on the umbrella handle, and the white-knuckling is gone. I relax a tiny bit. _"I won't be led around like a lamb to the slaughter, or jump into cars at the snap of a finger."_

His lips twist into a faint smile. _"You do realize that is a fairly incongruous stance, considering your occupation?" _he observes aridly.

_"It's not incongruous at all, it's a matter of sovereignty!" _I answer hotly. _"If I decide to submit myself to an experience, then I've chosen it, and the experience and where it takes me are mine alone! I still own myself, you see? If I let someone else choose for me, it's not mine any longer, and I lose my...self..."_ I heave a sigh. _"I'm not being very coherent. Sorry. Never mind." _I've had this conversation before, and nobody ever really gets it.

Except that Holmes looks as if he might; he is gazing past my shoulder with a thoughtful expression for a long moment, and then turns his eyes back to me. _"Then, no doubt you need to believe that you fully understand the situation before making the choice? All the particulars..."_

I nod. _"Yes! And the subtexts, too. Everything, as best I can. Otherwise, it's just a random coin-flip, isn't it?" _It dawns on me what he's hinting at. _"Right. That's what's been driving my...curiosity about you. There's one thing in particular-" _I hesitate, and he gives me an unconcerned, go-ahead kind of look.

I take a deep breath. _"I need to know, why me?"_ I look him directly in the eyes. _"To be blunt, you don't engage female escorts, and you don't engage the same escort twice in a row, ever. You've broken that pattern now, with me, but you're not a person who breaks pattern without a reason. You're running off your rails, and I need to know why, because it might affect me."_

He looks down and away, fidgeting with the umbrella, and I notice that he is poking his tongue into his cheek. I saw him do that a lifetime ago, earlier today at the wedding. I was too far away then, but I'm close enough now to see that he is actually biting his tongue. Holding back words? Or does the pain help him to stay focussed? I wonder if he has scars from biting too hard. He takes a long time to answer.

Holmes finally sighs, and he looks a little haunted when he admits, still looking down, _"I don't know. I simply don't know. Running off my rails. Actually, that is not a bad metaphor. There have been...events in the past month or so. A family member in hospital, critically wounded. Incredibly stressful. I suffer from insomnia, and I've been nearly unable to sleep at all lately-except, after I have been to see you. Then I sleep very well indeed."_ He glances up at me, sideways, and I realize that that is all I'm going to get out of him on the matter. It's going to have to be enough.

I nod. _"Stress relief. Okay, I get it."_ I draw a deep breath, let it out slow. _"So, all this," _I hold up my handcuffed hands and jangle the metal chain dangling between them, _"all this is because I was...well, stalking you? Nothing to do with that crazy Canadian, and the security cameras following us everywhere?"_

_"That? No. Nothing to do with it at all."_ He gives me a disgusted look. _"Why on earth did you agree to that? You didn't even appear to be enjoying yourself most of the time."_

_"Try none of the time, but it paid w- Hey! Were you running those CCTV cameras?"_ You kinky bastard, I think. You were watching it all.

Holmes just raises his eyebrows and gives me a supercilious look, not deigning to comment. Stalker. Takes one to know one.

I jangle the cuffs again. _"Can you do something about these? You know I'm not fond of metal..."_

Blandly, he shakes his head. _"I don't carry keys about with me. Davis or Brown will take care of it."_ Holmes nods toward the black car, silently waiting in the shadows. _"By the way, I want my umbrella back."_

_"You might not want it..."_

He gives me a sharp look and frowns. _"Why? Did you damage it?"_

_"No...it's not broken..."_

_"Then I want it BACK."_ He almost sounds petulant.

_"O-KAY!"_ I volley the petulance right back. _"I'll bring it next time."_ Assuming there is a next time; it seems like there might be.

Holmes examines the smooth wooden handle of his umbrella closely, and nonchalantly asks it, _"What do you think of Knightsbridge?"_

Huh? _"Um, it has trees. Trees are good."_

He nods as if an agreement has been reached. _"Very well, then,"_ and he turns and walks away a few feet, then stops and says, over his shoulder, _"I'll have the contract and the keys to the flat delivered to you Monday."_

"What? What are you talking about?"

He swings around to face me again. _"I believe three months should be enough time for an off-rail excursion, don't you?"_

"Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself? I haven't agreed to anything yet!"

He just gives me a little smile, puts his umbrella on his shoulder, and walks away, calling out as he goes, _"The grey tabby cat will have to remain with your sister; I have allergies."_

Arrogant git.


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six: "Alice: How long is forever? White Rabbit: Sometimes, just one second." ~Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland**

I stand there for a moment, watching Holmes saunter away from me and leave through a door marked EMERGENCY EXITS ONLY. I don't know what to think, but I certainly feel annoyed. Just like that, I'm going to sign up to be his exclusive...sleeping tablet for three months? And move into some manky flat, sight unseen, without Pablo? Well, okay, Knightsbridge is unlikely to be manky, but still...

Back at the black car once more, the suits are no friendlier to me; if anything, they seem more hostile. One of them has gotten out and is holding the door for me; silently, I hold up my manacled wrists and jangle the chain at him. His lip curls slightly, but he reaches into a pocket to pull out a little key, and ungraciously removes the cuffs.

I get back into the car, then, and rub my sore wrists as we ride back into the City. It's a surprisingly short trip, it seemed much longer on the way out. Fear has a way of distorting time, I guess.

I don't have to tell them where to take me; the car pulls up at our kerb, and the suit on that side pulls the door open, waving me out of the car. As soon as my foot hits the pavement, the door is slammed behind me, and the car peels away with a squeal of tyres. I guess they were as fed up with me as I was with them!

Pablo is the only sign of life in the flat; he is waiting by the door to wind around my ankles and say, _Hullo, where were you, please feed me?_ I scoop the big cat up and snuggle into his warm fur, feeling the deep, comforting rumble of his purring against my chest. I let out a shaky breath that I didn't know I had been holding all night.

I loose Pablo to jump down from my arms before he starts to wriggle, and wander into the kitchen with him at my heel. Checking the shelves, I am astonished to see how much food there was in there all along; a mere six hours before, the cupboard had seemed entirely bare. Look, a tin of beans! Suddenly, that sounds like a feast. I can't decide if I want a hot bath first, or food, so I compromise by doing both at the same time.

By the time I've fed Pablo, opened my own tin, hunted down a clean spoon, and stripped off my astonishingly dirty clothes, the tiny tub is full enough for me to fold myself into the steaming water with a sigh. The beans taste...like cold beans straight from the tin, but I'm so hungry that it doesn't really matter.

I stretch out, putting my feet up on the taps so I can sink my shoulders under the soothing water. I feel numb. Just, numb. So much in one day. The wedding. Running miles through the city, dodging that black car-how could it have taken me so long to realize they were tracing my phone? And Holmes materializing in that rank warehouse...I can't believe how cheeky I was! I don't usually talk back like that to people...except with friends like Steen. I'm like that with him.

I feel a pang of guilt. I should call Steen this week, but I don't want to deal with his envy, especially now that I really am going to be on long-term for a while-no, damn it, might be on a long-term contract. I haven't decided yet.

I put the empty bean tin on the floor and grab the soap to start washing up. Who am I kidding? Holmes was absolutely right, I have already decided to take the contract. There is no way that I won't. I'm hooked.

Fed, washed and dried, I flick on the telly for a minute, then flick it off again. Boring. I'm exhausted, but still too keyed up to sleep. I fix another snack, some marmite on stale crackers with a cup of milky tea, and retreat to my bed. Propped up with pillows, I grab my ereader tablet and flip through my collection for something soothing, an old friend. Pablo Neruda, yes; some of the best love poetry on the planet.

Pablo jumps on my bed and curls up in the valley between my knees, purring loudly as if he approves my choice. I read the poems of his namesake aloud to us both, in Spanish, until my voice turns to mumbling and the reader falls from my hand.

# # #

By the time Sara comes home from her habitual Sunday boyfriend-brunch, I am up and sorting through my clothes, packing some into suitcases. I've already talked to my manager this morning, who called with the glad tidings that Holmes had emailed her a contract offer for my hire, and she bubbled with joy when I told her I had decided to accept. She will send a copy of the contract to me for an e-signature later today, and recommended that I print up a hard copy for reference,

_"Because even the most intelligent people sometimes get confused, dear!_" Is she talking about me, or Holmes, I wonder?

When she comes in to see me, Sara immediately wants to know why I'm packing, and I give her the abridged version of my day yesterday. She sits on my bed, and alternates between amusement and horror. Shaking her head at the final encounter in the warehouse with Holmes, she asks, _"Is __this guy for real, Angelica? Are you sure that he isn't having you on? I mean, the amount of __power he would need, to have you traced like that, to watch you...it's a little unreal, isn't it?"_

I shrug, folding up a shirt. _"You'd understand if you met him. I don't think for a minute that he's __having me on. In fact, I think there's a lot more he's not saying, and never will. The blue one, or __the green?"_ I hold up two sun-dresses.

_"The blue. The green one makes you look a piece of chalk, I told you that when you bought it. So, __you are going to go live with a top-secret-super-spy government man that you know nothing __about, in a hidden flat somewhere in Knightsbridge for three months, so he can get some sleep? __Am I understanding you correctly? Do you realize that you sound completely mental?"_

I pull open my lingerie drawer, knowing I face some tough decisions. Lingerie is one thing that escorts take extremely seriously, it forming a large part of our working uniform, and even after only one year I have a considerable amount of it. What to pack?

_"Well, you've got a few things wrong. I won't be living with him; he's letting a pied-a-terre for the __three months, as I understand it, and will visit me there. The flat isn't hidden, I just don't know __where it is yet. I think you're right about the sleep part, though."_ I hold up two negligees. _"Which __one, do you think?"_

_"Oh, dear, the purple slutty-strappy-thing, or the red slutty-strappy-thing? However is one to __choose?"_ she mimes a woeful hand on her forehead, and I start throwing fistfuls of slutty underthings at her until we both are giggling. I decide to pack all of it, since slutty-strappy-things really don't take up much room.

_"You should __be relieved that I'm taking this, Sara. It means that I will be only seeing one client for the next_

_three months, and I won't be having to travel to appointments. Safer that way." _We exchange a look.

_"I'm all for the safer part," _she says, and helps me pack the lingerie in the suitcase. _"So, what's he __like? Old or young?"_

_"Well, neither, really."_

_"Handsome or homely?"_

_"Somewhere in the middle."_

_"Nice or nasty?"_

_"Um, both, by turns."_

Sara stops and gives me one of her looks. _"Are there any absolutes about the man? Or is he __perfectly amorphous?"_

I laugh at that. _"Anything but! Tall, dark, and sarcastic sums it up, I think."_

_"Just your type, then!"_ I give her a scowl at that. _"Truth, Angelica, and you know it. Erik was like t__hat, Sam was, so was Derrick..." _How on earth she remembers the names of all my ex-boyfriends, I don't know, because I can't even remember. _"Dad was too, you know, and we all __know what Freud said..."_

_"Yeah, Sairs, he said that everything was a penis! And speaking of which..."_ I take the black umbrella down from the hook in my closet, and stow it in my large suitcase. Can't forget that, Holmes specifically asked for it. I've decided not to tell him where it's been, what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

Sara and I cover the business end of things over tea, since I will need a place to store the stuff I'm not taking with me, and she will continue to need me to share expenses. And she agrees to look after Pablo, although it's hard for me to ask. She was much against my adopting him on the first place, citing my lack of responsibility in the past, and warning that she wasn't going to end up stuck with a cat when I got tired of him. I make it clear that this is only for three months, and that I'll be visiting back here regularly.

_"You better visit!"_ Sara tells me. _"And keep in touch between visits. You are awful about calling __me..."_

_"Then you should learn to text. I don't call, I text. Only oldies make phone calls anymore."_

She blows a very mature raspberry at me.

# # #

Time crawls by so slowly when I'm waiting on something; by Monday morning, I'm getting a little stir-crazy. I just want to get this move-in over with. It's almost noon before there's a knock at the door, and I answer it to find Ms. Black Dress, the pretty brunette, on my doorstep with a large envelope. We give each other fake-friendly smiles, she hands me the envelope without a word, and drives off. Okay. That felt like kind of bitchy, but maybe she's just being efficient; it can be hard to tell sometimes.

The envelope contains a hard copy of the signed contract, a key, and a note informing me that the flat, located at 1113 Ennismore Mews, is serviced twice a week, at ten o'clock a.m. on Mondays and Thursdays, and, as my contract is effective immediately, I am to relocate to that premises and expect a visit at 8 pm this evening, signed M.H.

Well, that's all warm and friendly, too, isn't it. I wonder for a minute what I've gotten myself into, but I know that since I've chosen this, I've chosen where it takes me. I call a minicab, asking for one with a large boot.

Ennismore Mews turns out to be a narrow, secluded cobblestone lane that meanders through a very quiet area near the Park. The high, pale plaster walls on either side are punctuated by occasional doors and windows, and every one graced with a blooming urn or flower-box. Number 1113 is a bright blue door, freshly painted, with a little gabled overhang trimmed in the same blue above it.

The driver unloads my suitcases by the doorstep, I tip him for the trouble, and off he goes, the tyres making a odd rumble on the cobbles. I unlock the door, and step inside to one of the most adorable flats I've ever seen. The place is furnished with nineteenth-century antiques, or good reproductions of them. It feels like a boutique hotel room, but larger and not so cutesy-overdone as most of them. Whoever did the decorating had some restraint. The downstairs has a sitting room and modern kitchen, the upstairs a single bedroom and a period-style bath. That's it, and it's tiny, but what more do I need?

And when I enter the bedroom, I have to burst out laughing-the space is dominated by an enormous mahogany four-poster bed. To my mind, it fairly screams "Adult Playground!" but then, I've got that sort of mind. Opposite the bed, I can see sunlight and green through the tall windows; they must overlook the Park. Nice touch, that, since I specifically mentioned trees. A burnished mahogany clothes valet is positioned in a corner under the windows, and the other corner bears a comfortable-looking padded armchair, with a little round side-table for company.

No built-in closets in an old place like this, but there is a good-sized wardrobe, and I have it all to myself. I set to putting my things away. As I'm setting my toiletries up in the bathroom, though, I discover that Holmes has put some personal effects in the flat after all; a gentleman's shaving kit is laid out on a tray in the bathroom cabinet. There's a mug, a cake of nice-smelling shaving soap, a badger brush, and, most curiously, a straight-edge razor. I've never seen one before, and I take it out to have a look. The handle is brushed stainless steel, the blade all business. Very elegant. Figures that he wouldn't just use a disposable plastic twin-blade or something ordinary like that. I appreciate that he has it here, because I really hate stubble on a man's face. Beard-burn is a serious occupational hazard.

When I've emptied my suitcases, I stow them under the bed and take the whanghee-handled umbrella downstairs to tuck it into the brass umbrella stand by the front door, and bid it a fond farewell. It's been fun, little friend! I'll have to get one for myself one of these days.

Using my trusty satellite navigation app, I venture out into the neighborhood on foot and locate the nearest eatery, a Chinese take-away, and it's not too awful. I also find a place to pick up a jug of milk, some tea, and a loaf of bread, so I'm set until I can figure out the bus lines and do a proper shopping trip tomorrow.

On my way back, I stop at the park for a smoke. I don't know if I should light up inside the flat or not; I'll have to ask Holmes about it, since he's paying for the place. I don't want a cigarette often, but it's a nice thing once in a while. I just don't have a very addictive personality-when it comes to substances, anyway.

I'm still dying to find out more about Holmes, for example, although I now know that he would probably find out if I stalked him, and most likely be displeased. Very displeased, if I read his reactions right. But I still want to! It's a hard habit to break, and I still have a lot of questions. Like, is that Sherlock that was on the phone the other night his boyfriend, or what? Do they live together? Where does the man get his money from? This cute little flat-in this neighborhood-isn't over-the-top posh, but it isn't cheap either. Comfortably upper-class, I'd say. And there's my retainer for the three months-although if you count up how much he'd be spending in nice hotel rooms plus my hourly, I think he's getting a reasonable discount by going for the long-term. Very practical, actually...

I stub out my cigarette and toss it into a bin, and head back to my new abode. It's time to start getting ready.

I go to put the jug of milk in the fridge, and get a huge surprise, because there's already one in there! Along with some other things, food that I use often, like lettuces, tomatoes and Swiss cheese. How did he know I only like Swiss? I check the freezer and cupboards, and there are more provisions. My favorite ice-cream. Eggs. Bread, and bagels. The biscuits we buy that Sara likes; the London shops never have the ones I like. There's even two packets of tea; my regular one, and a flavored one that I buy for Sara.

It's quite thoughtful, and sort of intrusive, all at the same time. Has he had people going through our garbage or something? Watching me at the shops? Weird, weird, weird. I shrug it off and go upstairs to bathe and dress.

Sliding into the tub, I realize how big it is; I can almost stretch out fully in it! Now, that is something I could get used to. Once I've tended to my grooming and dried my hair, I have the delightful chore of deciding which bit of lace to decorate myself with. There is a full-length mirror thoughtfully set into the outside of one door of the wardrobe, and I spend quite a few happy minutes trying on this and that and admiring myself. I settle on some classic black satin for the bra and knickers, and a stretchy, tight black dress with a micro-skirt. Just a little makeup, no need for product or doing anything too fancy with my hair. I throw in some hot rollers to give just a little curl and bounce, even though my stylist claims that those things are ruining my hair.

I've brought along what I like to call my "toy-box," a small locking trunk that holds my personal and professional sex toys, and the black gym bag is in there with the accouterments that Holmes provided for me. I take it out and set it on the floor beside the bed, since I'm not sure what the new ritual is going to be. I get distracted, poking through my toy-box, when I hear the front door being unlocked downstairs. Oh, hell, it's eight already! I start ripping curlers out of my hair, tossing them into a bathroom drawer.

Finger-combing my hair, I slide on some flats and head downstairs. Holmes has just put his other umbrella into the stand, beside its mate, and looks up at me as I come down off the last step.

_"I trust you have found everything to your satisfaction?"_ he asks politely.

_"Yes,"_ I nod_. "Very."_

_"Good, that's good."_ He puts his hands in his pockets, rocks on his feet a bit, and gives me a calculating, thoughtful look. He is a man with a speech to deliver. I loosely cross my arms, and lean against the carved bottom stair-post, expectant.

_"Before we go into the specifics of our little arrangement, Angel, there are some things that I must __be sure you understand. Are you listening?"_ Mutely, I nod my head, and think, God, what a patronizing, arrogant git you are!

He continues, looking past me now toward the sitting room. _"I will keep this simple. Most __important is the need for utter discretion on your part. Whatever you think you know about me __now, whatever you find out later, is not to be shared, ever. With anyone, for any reason. __Corollary to this, is loyalty. You will not act in any way, at any time, against my interests."_

He turns his eyes toward me, then, and they are like glittering ice-chips. I involuntarily shiver. _"If __you betray me, ever, Miss Talbot, in any way, I assure you that I can, and will, arrange matters in __such a way that the rest of your life will be spent incarcerated, with no hope of release, ever. Do __you understand?" _His face is like stone. I have no doubt whatsoever that he means every word of this.

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, and nod again. My brain has gone a little numb. It's just too much, I want to get away. My eyes slide down from his face, to focus on his tie. It's blue, and covered with unexpectedly silly, tiny umbrellas, and I find my voice saying, _"Why...why not just __have me killed if it's necessary, and be done with it? Seems simpler..." _Where is this sass of mine coming from?

He looks genuinely thoughtful, and sticks his tongue in his cheek for a second. _"It's surprisingly __complicated to eliminate someone that way. I don't resort to it unless absolutely necessary." _

Oh, my god, he's serious. I don't know if the shock registers on my face or not, but Holmes gives me an oddly cheerful smile, goes over to the sideboard in the sitting room, and pours himself a tumbler from one of the decanters there.

He holds the glass up to the light, admiring the color. _"Well, that's that, and now we understand __one another. Now for the particulars." _He seats himself on the sofa, and waves me toward one of the armchairs like a gracious host. I sit, legs crossed, and my hands folded on my knee with a perky look, like I'm a new hire getting instructions. I think he misses the nonverbal sarcasm, but it makes me feel better.

_"First, availability. Your contract stipulates that you have complete freedom to come and go as __you please, which of course is completely acceptable, but you are to be available here within t__hree hours of notice, correct?" _He sips his drink, I nod my head. _"Is there any way to reduce that __by mutual agreement to two hours, or even one? My schedule is at times far more erratic than I __would like, and three hours advance notice will be inconvenient."_

I consider. _"Well, the main problem is transportation. I don't have much going on that I can't drop __with short notice, but it's getting back here quickly enough that would be the difficulty..."_

_"What if I sent one of my aides to transport you?"_

Oh, lovely, I think. Ms. Bitchy Black Dress and the Suit-ettes, what fun. I shrug. _"If you're sure __they don't mind, we could try for two hours as a maximum, and less if I can manage it."_

He pulls a frown_."Of course they don't mind, they're my aides. It's their job not to mind."_

Holmes stands up and walks over to the entertainment system hidden inside an armoire at the far end of the sitting room. _"Very well, two hours, then, and we shall have to see how it goes."_

He begins rotating through the cd's in the carousel, looking for something in particular. _"In future, __I would like you to await my arrival upstairs, in the bedroom, rather than coming down."_

_"Okay,"_ I say. _"Any preference for me to be dressed, undressed, whatever?"_

He settles on a Baroque piece with lots of violin, and glances at my outfit. _"Dressed. That one is __acceptable, but I would prefer more like the blue one with the ties,"_ He flutters his long fingers in an imitation of pulling strings. He turns fully toward me again then, with a more calculating regard. _"Two more things. First is your hair. Stand up, please."_

_"My hair?"_ I ask, standing. I've heard about this kind of thing with long-terms, they start to want to fiddle with your look. One escort on the forum said her long-term client even paid for her to have breast implants! I love my hair, and I'm not dyeing it or chopping it all off, no matter what. Well, maybe I would for a whole lot of money, but it would have to be a LOT.

_"I'd like you to consider a slight change in style. It would please me quite a bit."_ He comes over and lightly touches my hair, pushing it back over my shoulders-then his face twitches, and he pulls out a hot-roller u-clip from the curls, holding it up in a bemused way. _"What in the world is __this?"_

I snatch it out of his hand. _"Overlooked it. Sorry._"

_"Quite. Well, I would like to see your hair just a bit shorter, to above the shoulders, like so,"_ he flips the ends of my hair up so that it just grazes the top of my shoulders. _"And curled under __smoothly, not all messy like this." _He flops the ends about disdainfully. _"And, perhaps, a bit of f__ringe, just here,"_ he traces a finger across my right brow. _"What do you think?"_

Actually, it sounds pretty good. I've got such bad split ends that my stylist has been after me for months to take off a few inches, and a classic bob would look good with the 60's retro clothes I like right now...and I'm not going to let on to any of that, because I want full points for being agreeable. Might be useful.

_"Well, I don't know...it's taken me years to get it this long..." _I sigh reluctantly. _"I guess, if it really __means a lot to you, okay. I have an appointment two weeks from now, I'll have my stylist do it up __then?"_

He shakes his head, with a trace of a smile. _"I will make the arrangements for this week, at a good __salon."_

I shrug. _"Okay. What else?"_

He knits his brows together and tilts his head for emphasis. _"Up until recently, you have been __blissfully silent. I would appreciate a return to that, if you please._" I smile, _"I didn't think you were here for conversation._"

He doesn't smile. _"Most certainly not,"_ he drawls out with an arch look, and gestures me up the stairs. I'm tempted to have the last word with, Well, neither am I! But I'm pretty sure that would be an error, so I bite my lip and head upstairs to await his lordship's pleasure.

# # #

The baroque violins are sounding upstairs as well; there must be speakers installed in the bedroom. I go in and lie down on the big bed, with my head under a pillow. I can get along with nearly any sort of music most of the time, but there are times when classical is just plain annoying, especially the wailey violins. I roll over and stare up at the flounced canopy above me.

I need to get over this attitude, and fast. I am full of resentment at Holmes, and that does not bode well for the rest of our business relationship. If I want this job to work out, I'm going to have to work at it. I close my eyes, and meditate on my breath, and calmness, and all those good things. I mentally recite some good poetry. I almost fall asleep.

I don't know how long he was there, but I open my eyes eventually and Holmes is standing in the doorway, not exactly looking at me sprawled on the bed, more like taking in the entire scene, with me embedded in it. The bed, the girl, the rich mahogany furniture, the green-gold sunset streaming through the tilted slats of the mini-blinds onto the pale ivory walls, he's taking in all of it, and he looks supremely pleased with himself. He has such a smug smile, that something rises in me that wants to wipe that gloating look off his face. I want to do something horrible, just to make him stop being so goddamn pleased with his wonderful self.

Aren't we human beings a piece of work?

He hangs his coat on the clothes valet, and puts his drink on the little table, motioning for me to stand beside him. I comply, standing barefoot and ready. I'm still battling down the surge of hostility, trying to get back to feeling simply calm and attentive. It's a struggle. He doesn't want to do the long stare tonight; perhaps because he did already. He reaches down to the hem of my skin-tight dress, and begins to stretch and roll it upwards, over my hips, waist, bust. I raise my arms up over my head, and he pulls it up until my head pops out, but my arms are still wound up in the black fabric. He gathers the fabric tighter with one hand, pinning my elbows together over my head, and with the other hand very delicately strokes the satin cupped over my breasts, and the tiny triangle of it at my crotch. Note to self-Holmes really likes satin. Must get more.

He shifts around to be able to fondle my backside then, and I realize that I can now see the reflection of his face quite well in the mirror on the wardrobe door. His eyes are closed, and I watch his expression curiously. His brow is knit, his face tense, lips parted; he might be a man in pain, but I know better. I've seen that look before-it feels so good that it hurts. He also looks pale and drawn to a thread; I can see marks of exhaustion under his eyes that I hadn't noticed before.

Poor bastard really looks like he hasn't slept in days. Well, we'll take care of that. He releases my arms suddenly and motions for me to take everything off, as he reaches down beside the bed for the black bag. Out come the cuffs, but no harness this time. When I am naked, he buckles the ankle and wrist restraints on me, and I end up on my back, with wrists tethered to the head of the bed, then he guides my legs up, one at a time, to clip each ankle to a wrist. It's not as uncomfortable as you would think, especially after he tucks a pillow under my bum for support.

The light has started to fade by then, so he turns on a small lamp on the bedside, a rather bright one. He then goes through his disrobing ritual, down to his undershirt and briefs as usual, then...he disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running, and the click of the cabinet. Bless his heart, he's shaving! I mentally take back at least a third of the uncharitable things I have thought about him.

I wait, feeling calm and centered, feeling the tingle of anticipation, feeling alive. Holmes comes back into the bedroom, carrying a tray, and has a towel over one arm. I look at him curiously, and he comments with a serene smile, _"You always miss a few spots. I like to make things tidy. __Actually, I very much need them to be tidy."_

My eyes widen with a whimper as I realize that he has brought in the tray of shaving equipment, including the straight razor and a mug of steaming water. I shake my head vigorously. _"No. No way. That's not necessary, I already took care of that. Put it away!"_ My voice starts to rise to a shriek, and he puts down the tray and shushes me with soft fingers laid on my lips.

_"I am going to do this regardless,"_ he says steadily. _"If you carry on loudly, you'll disturb my __concentration, and I might nick you. If you thrash around, I might nick you. Really, the only __possible course of action is to relax and do your breathing. You might find that you actually enjoy __it,"_ he finishes with a strangely genuine smile, and starts to expertly whip up a lather with the soap and brush.

I stare at the canopy above me, and say through gritted teeth, _"So help me, if you do me any __damage, I swear I am going to saw off your bollocks with a dull knife!"_

All I get in response is a _"Shush!"_ and a chuckle.

I can't believe this. This is why we are supposed to use safe words in bondage play, although I have the suspicion that he would be ignoring that, too, right now. He's applying the brush and lather to my tender bits, everywhere where hair usually grows down there, and a few places I thought it didn't. It tickles, and feels slippery at the same time, and smells very nice. It feels very, very erotic, but I am terrified at the thought of that razor... Actually, the terror of the thought of the razor is making the tickle of the brush even more erotic. He knew that, the bastard! It's so arousing, I have a hard time keeping still; I want to squirm.

Finally, I hear him put the brush back on the tray, and a soft snick! as he unfolds the razor. I am tempted to raise my head and have a look down there, but I can't bring myself to do it. I brace myself for the touch of cold steel, but there is only a slight tugging at the skin, and bits being moved around to keep the skin stretched taut. His hands are sure and gentle, precise. I almost don't dare breathe. I'm so turned on, I feel like I'm vibrating without actually moving, and time is suspended.

After forever, there is the click of the razor being laid back on the tray, and a warm, moist towel is swabbed over me, removing the traces of soap and lather. I start breathing again.

The bed shifts as he gets off it to take the tray back to the bathroom. He returns a moment later, and turns the light down to a soft glow. He lays his hands and face on me then, on the front of me: belly, breasts, thighs, throat, legs, everywhere. There isn't the same frantic intensity as before, though. He's more languid, calmer, more thorough.

I would have thought him more squeamish about the parts that are dripping wet right now, but he seems to relish that, too, feeling and tasting; then he becomes more and more focussed on my bum and backdoor. Ah, so that's the way it's going tonight? No problem, that's fun, too, I think, and concentrate on relaxing.

By the time he's applied the condom, I am so relaxed and slick with my own flowing juiciness that nothing extra is needed. He slides in, and we are, for the first time, coupled face-to-face. I wonder academically if he will be an eye-contact, or an eye-avoiding, or an eyes-closed kind of guy. My money is on eye-avoiding, but I am dead wrong.

I am literally bent double under him, my tethered ankles resting on his shoulders, his arms planted on either side of my legs, his face closer than it's ever been, and those blue eyes are boring into mine. I myself am an eyes-closed person, but it's a disengagement signal to turn away from eye contact, so I endure the gaze, holding his eyes with mine as he moves in me, but it's almost more than I can handle. I don't want to be this close to him, to anyone. I'm laid bare, flayed, and his eyes are sharper and more terrifying than any razor.

He doesn't even close his eyes when he comes, instead curling in even closer to me, until we are nose-to-nose, and I can taste the brandy still on his breath. It's only when the spasms are over for him that he finally lets go of my eyes and collapses against me, his head cradled on the curve of my shoulder, gasping. I start to get a little concerned, but a few moments later he seems to rally, and slowly rolls away from me.

He's not quite out of there like a shot, but he doesn't linger. As always, now I become invisible to him, no more consequential than the rest of the furnishings in the room. I hear the shower run briefly, then he comes out and quickly dresses, finally releasing one of my wrists without a word, or a glance. A moment later I hear his voice downstairs, probably calling his car, and then the front door opens and closes, and I'm alone with the damned baroque violins. I strip off my tethers and stalk downstairs in the buff to figure out how to shut the music off.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven: "Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do..." ~ Shakespeare, As You Like It**

Two hours later, I am still stalking around the flat, although now wrapped in my dressing gown, my hair in a towel. I've tidied up, showered, and given myself three orgasms, and I am still so restless I am ready to jump out of my skin.

I go to the kitchen for some ice-cream, but after a few spoonfuls from the carton, I throw the spoon in the sink. That's not it. I wish Pablo was here, I could cuddle him. It's too late to phone Sara on a work night, and I don't feel like talking to anybody else. The soft jazz that I've put on the stereo sounds soothing, but I'm not soothed.

I want a smoke. Damn it all to hell, I forgot to ask him if I could smoke in the flat! I stand with my cigarettes and lighter in hand, wondering what to do-this isn't the sort of neighborhood where you can stand in your dressing gown on the front steps for a smoke-o!

Fuck it. Fuck HIM. I throw myself down on the sofa, plant my feet on the coffee table, and light up. Ah, now we're getting somewhere! I pull the towel off, tossing it on the floor, and flip my damp hair over the back of the sofa so it won't get my shoulders wet. I lean my head back and blow smoke at the ceiling like a 40's film star.

I know why I forgot to ask about smoking in the flat. Holmes got me so rattled with his little speech about betrayal...unbelievable, except that I believe it, every word. What he said, and how he looked when he said it, was scary-but I'm not scared of him. I probably should be; I mean, he threatened me! And I have no doubt that he would kill me if he thought it was necessary, complications be damned.

So why the hell am I still here? Why am I not packed and running back to Sara's? I have the option of breaking my contract at any time, with no penalties. But I don't want to leave. I don't know what I want, but leaving isn't it.

I take a deep drag on the cigarette, and realizing that I have no ashtray handy, cup my hand under the glowing lump of ash on the end of it as I run to the kitchen for a saucer. I don't quite make it, and yelp with pain as a big chunk of ashy grey with a gash of red in it falls into my palm. I hold my hand under the cold tap for a few minutes, until it stops hurting, flicking the ashes into the sink as I finish the cigarette.

I remember my auntie holding my hand under the tap like this all the time; I used to burn myself a lot when we first went to live with her. City kids, Sara and I had never seen an open hearth in our lives until we were sent to Auntie's after Mum died, and I was completely fascinated by the coal fire that heated her cottage sitting-room. I was obsessed with playing with it, even though at seven years old I should have known better. Sara did her best to thwart me, but Auntie's theory of child-rearing was, "Experience is the best teacher," along with, "What doesn't kill you makes you wiser." It's probably for the best that she didn't have any children of her own.

I kept getting burned, and kept going back for more. I never told anyone, but sometimes I would let the coals burn me a little on purpose, probably a displacement activity. Fire-bug, Auntie called me, and threatened me with a hiding if I ever played with fire outside of the hearth. I never did. I was a good girl, back then. I did as I was told.

Turning the cold tap off, I take down a saucer and go back to the sofa to light up another cigarette. This one doesn't taste as good as the first, so I stub it out halfway, and lean back to listen to the mellow saxophone and piano bantering on the stereo.

What's going on with me? I poke around at my feelings, untangling them without judgment, as if they were just a mess of tangled wool I wanted to knit with….

I feel lonely. I feel sad. I feel...hurt. What hurts?

A very young part of me answers, He doesn't care. He just makes things happen and then goes away. He doesn't offer any comfort. He doesn't care. He's just like-

Ah. There it is. I won't make myself even think it, because it's too creepy, but there it is. Right. Well, Angelica, don't get Holmes confused with other people. He's an employer, it's not his job to care. That's why he pays money, so he doesn't have to care. It's a fair deal, and if I don't like it, I can leave.

I don't want to leave.

So, I guess that puts me smack back where I was, craving comfort where there is none. I heave a sigh. Sometimes there is no solace, and that is the hard truth of it. Sometimes the only thing you can do is have a good cry. Afterwards, I put myself to bed.

# # #

I don't mean to have a long lie-in the next morning, but it happens anyway. There is no morning sun coming in the tall bedroom windows, no hungry tabby to pounce on my head. I stumble downstairs, checking my phone for messages, but there aren't any. I feel very insulated as I have my morning tea and toast, like the rest of the world is very far away. Most people are at their day-time jobs right now.

I text Sara, but figure she won't reply, so I phone her just to hear her voice mail message. It's reassuring. I catch up on my forums and social networking obligations as well, although I'm not feeling very social at the moment.

The day looms ahead of me, and I'm feeling at odds in a way that feels frighteningly familiar. Ah, depression, my old friend... But I know what to do. I immediately sit down and make myself a schedule, my first line of defense.

First, tidy the flat and get in a few hours of study; it doesn't matter which of my projects I work on, so long as I work on one-translating more Rumi might be a good choice. Rumi is good for the soul. Or, maybe that book about men in mid-life crisis that I started reading a while back...

Second, exercise; I have to make myself go to the gym for a few hours. My body is my major asset right now, and I can't neglect it-besides, working out lifts your mood, that's a fact.

Third, outside time; even if it's just strolling the pavements, I need to be outside doing something physical. Walking at least part of the way when I go to get groceries will do, and maybe a walk in the park as well.

# ##

I end up having a pretty good day. It doesn't hurt that it's warm and sunny for a change, a gorgeous July evening. By the time I am walking down Ennismore Mews with two carry-bags in each hand, bopping along to the tunes I have playing on my earbuds, I'm completely content. I'm looking forward to making myself a really nice mushroom-spinach-swiss cheese omelette for tea, and then exploring the lush public gardens across the way for afters.

I let myself into the flat, humming, and almost drop my groceries when I see a man lounging in my sitting room, reading a newspaper. It takes me a moment to realize that it's Holmes, looking up at me with sardonic amusement. I pull out my earbuds, and he gives me a polite nod, then goes back to his paper. _"There is a person at the Diogenes that I am avoiding this evening,_" he offers indifferently.

"_Oh, I see._" He did make it known last night that he would like me to talk less, so I leave it at that.

Okay. He's paying for the place, of course he gets to come and go as he pleases, too. Still, it's very weird having him unexpectedly sitting there. He'd better not be thinking I'll drop everything to go upstairs for him right away. Two hours notice, that's what we agreed. I'm really hungry, and I want to at least eat a little bite first.

I park my handbag and other burdens on the dining counter, put the groceries away, and start getting the equipment out to make my tea. I wish there was a proper pan in this kitchen for omelettes, but it seems to only be furnished with the basics; I guess I should be grateful that I at least didn't have to bring my own cookware.

Holmes can see into the kitchen from his chair, and looks at me over the top of his paper. "_Angel, I have two items to inform you of. First, you have an appointment tomorrow at 2 o'clock at the salon in Harrod's to have your hair cut, as we agreed. They will phone you with a reminder. Getting there on foot from here should take you less than 9 minutes. I assume that you won't require a car for that?"_ I shake my head. Oooh, I get to go to Urban Retreat salon. Very swish.

"_Secondly, in future I prefer that you not smoke in this flat. If you please,_" his eyes narrow slightly, and his thin lips are pressed together disapprovingly.

"_Okay,"_ I nod. That long nose of his must be as sensitive as a bloodhound's, because I aired the place out earlier. Oh, well, it's not really a big deal-and now I know a way to just slightly annoy him, if I want to.

He returns to his paper, and I to my cooking. I am washing my mushrooms before slicing them up to saute with the spinach, when Holmes peers over and looks horrified _"You should never wash fresh mushrooms! You wipe them clean with a tea towel. Washing them spoils the flavor." _

I shake my colander full of clean mushrooms, draining them. "_They grow in compost. I don't like the flavor of compost, so I wash them." _

He shakes his head, returning to his paper. "_You obviously have no idea how to cook." _

Grrrr. _"Then I guess I shouldn't offer you anything, since you wouldn't care for it anyway." _

He doesn't look up_ "No, I wouldn't." _

I roll my eyes and get on with chopping the mushrooms.; a minute later he's watching me again, and making that face. I'm obviously doing it all wrong _"I believe they have cookery programmes on television,"_ he says, sounding as if he is genuinely trying to be helpful. _"Would you like to have a television here? I hadn't considered that." _

I put down the knife so I can glare at him directly _"No, thank you. I don't need to watch 'cookery programmes.' And I've got my own broadband connection; I can watch all the shows I care to on my laptop." _

_ "What a relief. Here I was wondering what you were going to do with yourself all day long."_ Sarcasm doesn't usually bother me; I kind of got used to it growing up. You just can't take it personally.

I start chopping again, extra-vigorously. _"Today I spent most of the day reading, actually." _

He makes a show of peering around the room, with a look of feigned confusion _"Reading…? What, exactly? I seem to have brought with me the only printed matter to be found in this flat,"_ he folds his newspaper and flops it down on the coffee table.

Oh, my god, that's it. I put down my knife, pull my e-reader in its padded case out of my handbag, and flip it at him like a Frisbee. Holmes catches it neatly, but frowns at me.

_ "That's my library, about 900 books at the moment."_ I toss the veggies into the hot olive oil in the pan, stirring them around. Holmes flips open the cover of my e-reader and toggles it to the index, rapidly paging through the titles. I was hoping he would do that; I want him to see that I'm no lightweight.

_ "I see that it's not quite all popular novels. Quite a lot of psychology, not surprising, given the degree you were pursuing..."_ Right, I think, make sure that I know that you know everything about me, Mr. Holmes.

He keeps on paging _"There are even a few volumes in foreign languages. Persian, Spanish, German, Russian…"_ He looks up at me, _"How many foreign languages do you speak?"_ he asks, looking mildly interested.

_ "Well, only German, really. But I can read quite well in four others and-"_ I'm quite proud of this, but he cuts me off dismissively.

_ "With a dictionary, no doubt,"_ and flops my reader on the coffee table alongside the newspaper.

_ "Yes."_ Deflated, I whisk my eggs, but then that cheekiness bubbles up again _"So, how many languages do you have? Without a dictionary, I mean." _

He gives me a very deadpan look_ "Fluently? Well, not taking into account dialects and regional—"_ his phone rings, and he immediately takes it out, checks the number with a frown and answers it. "_Yes, what is it?_" He moves toward the front entry for more privacy.

I keep the heat low so the eggs don't make too much noise when they hit the pan; I want to hear what he's saying. However, I needn't have bothered, because I can hear him just fine when he starts to shout at whoever it is that called.

_ "What? Again? Oh, for god's sake, can't you people keep better track of him than that? It's not as if he can move very quickly at the moment."_ Pause. "_That serious? What was the latest blood test?" _ Pause. _"I see. Yes, by all means keep him sedated, once you get him back. No, no need to involve the police yet. I'll see what I can do." _

He hangs up and makes another call, sounding very put-upon _"I need you to locate him again. Yes. High priority. No, just locate him and contact me for further instructions." _

Holmes places his phone on the coffee table and heaves down on the sofa with a sigh, elbows on his knees and rubbing the sides of his head with his hands "_Oh, Sherlock,"_ he groans. He looks at the decanter on the sideboard, his arms dangling down. He suddenly looks worn and weary.

And I'm a sucker for male angst, so I go and pour a small brandy for him, bringing the tumbler over and setting it down in front of him. I have an impulse to give him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, but I don't think he'd appreciate it.

Holmes looks at the drink, then at me, and reaches over to take it in hand. He takes a swallow, savoring, then a larger quick one. I finish getting my tea ready, and take a seat on a stool at the counter that divides the sitting room and the kitchen to eat it.

I'm dying to know what's going on, so I toss out a conversational gambit around my eggs. _"I hope he's worth all the trouble." _

Holmes sighs, looking at the rapidly-emptying glass in his hand _"I suppose, yes…mostly… I do my best to look after him, like I promised. He doesn't make it easy. He never has." _Another sip slides down. _ "He relies on me, but resents it. And me." _

I smile at a thought_ "You sound like you're his keeper, then." _

"_ Yes, I suppose so,"_ he gives a mirthless little laugh "I_t fits, doesn't it? I don't think he realizes how much he needs keeping. He's so careless, so haphazard. Impulsive." _

_"Maybe that's what you love about him,"_ I hazard, sipping my tea.

_" Love?!"_ Holmes looks positively alarmed and horrified, and a little repulsed.

I have to laugh at his reaction. _"It's not a dirty word, you know. It's terrifically over-used, of course, but it's still acceptable for use in polite company." _

He snorts derisively as he takes another sip of his brandy. It ought not to be._ 'Love,' "_ he drawls the word out to nearly five syllables, "-_is nothing but self-indulgent sentiment, a ready excuse for the exercise of any and all stupidity and vice….a sugar-coating on the realities of human nature. "_ He knocks back the rest of his drink.

Wow, Holmes must be really fun to be in a relationship with. I start to feel a little sorry for his boyfriend-no wonder Sherlock has some resentments!

I finish my omelette, all the while trying to formulate another question that will tease out some more information without sounding too obvious; but then his phone rings again. This time he doesn't bother to withdraw when he answers it, and I see that after a quick glance at the number of the caller, his face registers relief.

_ "Yes. Where ARE you? And why...oh, never mind."_ There is a long pause, and he rolls his eyes, waiting for the other person-Sherlock?-to stop talking. _"Well, you're on the right track to taking care of your problem, aren't you? Yes, I think so. You're doing quite well."_ I can hear the sarcasm dripping as Holmes's voice turns silky _"Quite well indeed. In fact, if you keep on like this, you'll never have to worry about being bored again, I should think."_ Pause. "_Oh, well, because you'll be dead! Of septic shock, Sherlock! Get back to the hospital and back on the intravenous antibiotics, you idiot!"_ There is another long pause, and Holmes sighs. "_Yes...later. In a few hours. Of course. Yes, of course. Just tell me one more thing, please. Is John with you?"_ The answer makes Holmes close his eyes with relief as he ends the call.

Then he looks at his empty glass, and then at me. I go ahead and fetch him another one; it's a nurturing thing, I can't help it.

Whilst I'm pouring, he makes another call, saying simply, _"Stand down. He's been located," t_hen takes the proffered tumbler from my hand and settles himself back on the sofa with a sigh. I'm perched once more on the stool, finishing my mug of tea, and Holmes takes out his pocket watch with a flourish and checks the time, then raises an eyebrow at me, flicking his eyes upstairs.

Well, why not? "_Twenty minutes." _

He shakes his head _"Fifteen, because you will let me take care of the intimate shaving._" I think he notices my eyes widen just a little, because he almost grins.

# # #/

Holmes comes upstairs exactly fifteen minutes later, of course, to the strains of something tinkly on a piano-maybe Chopin?-and he has already shed his suit jacket. Well, so much for my OCD theory, if he can vary his disrobing ritual spontaneously, unless his focal point is another ritual I don't know about... It occurs to me that I am much less preoccupied these days with figuring out what's wrong with him; maybe I'm less uncomfortable with him now? Sort of...

I've put on the blue silk wrap dress, since the rain water didn't spot it after all, and Holmes's eyes crinkle up in a smile when he sees me wearing it, standing by the big bed. He doesn't sit down, but immediately walks slowly around me, trailing a hand on my hip and tum, taking in the feel of the silk and my skin beneath it. Then he pulls the strings, unwrapping me, and the dress flutters down into a puddle of blue.

Locking his eyes with mine, he reaches around to unhook my lacy white bra, and slowly pulls it off of me, letting it drop to the floor. Then he does the most unexpected thing I can imagine: He slides his arms around me in a tight embrace, bending his dark head to bury his face in the curve of my neck.

He's hugging me, like a child holds a teddy bear, and squeezing so tightly that I nearly can't breathe. My arms are pinioned at my sides, and one of my elbows is digging into my ribs a bit, but it nevertheless feels very nice. This is what I wanted last night, this is what I needed. Just, to be held. I wish I dared hug him back

So, I stand there like a life-size teddy, and let him squeeze me for all he's worth; I wouldn't be surprised to find button-prints from his waistcoat on my skin afterward.

Then he fastens the harness on me with his usual meticulous care, and fetters my wrists to it at the shoulders, but he leaves my ankles free this time. Once I'm in the position he wants-on my back, knees tucked under my bent elbows-he wags a "stay put!" finger at me, and trots off to remove the rest of his suit and his shirt, and fetch his things from the bathroom. I still have great trepidation at the approach of the shaving kit, but it's less of an ordeal this time around, and Holmes is humming along with with music, clearly enjoying himself. I guess he does like making things tidy.

When things get down to business, he gradually becomes very bitey again, and as usual he is not at all gentle, but neither is he brutal. I flinch at times, but don't feel the need to tell him to back off; it occurs to me that he is probably perfectly aware of what my tolerances are.

He moves me around quite a lot, which is probably why he left my ankles undone, and I make a game of anticipating just where he's going to want to explore and nip next, and offering that up even before he has a chance to know it himself. It's more interesting than just lying there, although I wonder if I should be encouraging him. He finally ends up curled behind me with his teeth tightly clamped onto the top of my shoulder, his long arms wrapped close around me. The room is warm from the late-setting July sun beating on the blinds, and I can feel his undershirt is damp with sweat where it presses against my back.

Once inside me, he is not so much pounding as rocking, holding me very close, and when he is finished, he doesn't jump up and run as soon as he has caught his breath. He lingers, just a little, and I use my inner muscles to give him a sly, close hug before he slips out of me; the Agency's training included all sorts of fun tricks a girl can do. For that, I was a very apt pupil.

Very shortly after Holmes departs and I have tidied things up, Sara finally calls me back, and we bubble at each other happily. I describe the flat to her, and she very much wants to come see it, but I have to tell her no.

_" No visitors allowed at all, sorry. It's a clause he added to the contract, and I don't think breaking it would be a good idea. He would know if I had someone over, I really think he would."_

_" You think the place is under surveillance?"_

I remember the CCTV cameras following me and the Canadian_ "Yes, I definitely do. So, let's wait until the three months are up, like the day before they are, then I'll have you over for tea or something."_

_" Think you'll make it to the end, the whole time? You weren't too certain about him before. Is it okay?"_

_ "I'm fine."_ I think about how prickly and sarcastic he was tonight-downstairs, at least "_He always seems to be trying to pick a fight with me, though! Or maybe he just can't resist poking. I'm all right, he's not abusive-and if he gets that way, I can always vote with my feet, like Daddy used to say. " _

_"Good." _Our talk veers onto discussion of her relationship with her boyfriend, Richard, and how Pablo is doing without me, and other mundane topics. We make plans for getting together Sunday evening, and we're getting ready to say good-night, when Sara suddenly blurts,i "Oh, I almost forgot, that Aussie friend of yours, Steen, stopped by today. He left a package for you."

_ "What is it?"_ I ask.

_ "How should I know? It's square, wrapped in brown paper, and smaller than a bread box, if that's any help. He seemed really disappointed that you weren't here. I encouraged him to phone you, but he just shook his head. I think you need to call him, at least to say thank you."_

_"Okay, I probably will."_

_"Probably! You have to. He's given you a present, you have to thank him. You know, sometimes you have the worst manners."_

No, not the worst, I think. I know somebody who's worse than me, at least some of the time.

I look at the phone in my hand for a minute after I end the call with Sara. She's right, I should phone Steen. He's obviously tried to bring me a peace offering, and it would be churlish to not accept it. But I'm still mad at him.

For what? For letting me down by being human, and fallible? I snort at myself. Right, and I'm so perfect. Steen letting some envy and jealousy show is pretty minor compared to some of the ways I've shat on friends over the years.

I punch in his number. It's a Tuesday night, he usually takes Tuesdays off, why not just get it over with? He answers right away.

_"Angelica?"_ he sounds cautious.

_"Hey. Yeah, it's me. Sara said you stopped by today."_

_"Yeah, I, ahh, I really need to talk to you."_

_"Fire away! I'm right here."_

_"I shouldn't right now. Not right now. Listen, can we get together, soon? Very soon? Tomorrow?"_

He sounds nervous. I'm not THAT mad at him, why is he nervous? "_Sure, yeah. I've got a hair appointment at Urban Retreat tomorrow at 2 o'clock, do you want to find me there and we'll go have a coffee afterward?"_

_"Yes, that would work, yes. I'll be there. Have you opened the package I left for you?"_

_ "No, I haven't... Hey, are you okay, mate? You don't sound so-"_

_"Just hang onto it, okay? It might be important. I'll explain tomorrow."_


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight: "Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival." ~ CS Lewis**

The salon does indeed ring to remind me of my appointment, but why they think that 8:30 am is a good time for that, I'll never know. At least the woman on the other end is cheerful without being phony, and makes sure I know which of their twenty-two stylists will be seeing to me, as well as informing me that I am also scheduled for a manicure-pedicure session after my cut. Well, that's nice of Holmes, is my first thought.

Except, after yesterday, my second thought is that he simply thinks I don't do a good enough job on my own, and need professional help with my grooming. God, going at me yesterday over how I cook my mushrooms! He's probably even specified what nail polish I'm to have. We'll see about that...

Over breakfast, I check my online newsfeeds. No more front-page buzz about the "Call-Girl Killings," just a scant article buried amongst some robbery reports. The last victim-I see her name was Regina Stone-was murdered little more than a week ago, but everyone seems to have moved on. I'm kind of disgusted at what a short attention span the public have these days. I am still in hopes that the killer will be caught; according to the little article, all three victims were definitely shot with the same handgun, but there still are no suspects.

As a last bit of business, I sign onto the escort's forum to catch up on the gossip, only to find that quite a bit of it is about me! I don't know who let it out, but it seems to be general knowledge that I'm on contract with "Mr. Tate" for a few months, and there are some just plain nosey-parker queries aimed at me. Mindful of Holmes's little speech about discretion and loyalty, I give some vague answers and simply ignore most of it.

On the forum, at least, there is still a lot of discussion about the murders of Calypso and the others. Everyone seems convinced that the killer is going to strike again, and they are all looking over their shoulders. Those that can afford it have started hiring private security to ride along with them after dark, and I am selfishly glad that I don't have to worry about it for a while.

A curious fact emerges from combing through the discussion threads: all three dead women at one time worked for the Agency. Calypso I knew about, because she was famous for quitting to work freelance, but the other two were a surprise. Tanya and Regina apparently both left the Agency a few years ago, or were dismissed; nobody seems to know for sure. A few postings insinuate that the two were breaking the rules about drug use on the job. It might sound odd to worry if a prostitute is using drugs, but at our level of performance it matters; you can't be a superior companion if you are completely strung out. It's one of the things our managers are very strict about.

It's all quit interesting. I bookmark the relevant discussions in case I want to delve more into them later. For now, since I don't feel like going in to the gym, I need to get out my mat and do my at-home workout.

When it comes time to shower and get dressed, I get a nasty surprise when I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror: I have one hell of a bruise on my shoulder! Bloody Holmes and his bloody teeth and bloody oral fixation.

I inspect the damage closely. The bite didn't break the skin at all, and the pressure must have been increased slowly enough not to register as too painful; I don't remember it hurting as much as it looks like it did. It's a horseshoe-shaped stain of various shades of vivid purple on the top of my shoulder, almost four fingers wide. Damn, it's just in the wrong place to cover with make-up, too, because it'll rub off. Inspecting the rest of my skin-where I can see-reveals a few more colourful spots, but nothing that is too obvious.

After my shower, I assess my clothing options. Covering this thing on my shoulder is actually going to be a problem. It's summer, it's warm—even sweltering hot, if we get lucky—and I like to wear as little clothing as possible, generally speaking. I have exactly one t-shirt with me right now that will cover the bruise, barely, and one skirt that will go with it, my leather mini. So, that's what I wear, and I add a fluttery sheer scarf around my neck, in case things shift around. I don't want to be sitting in a swishy salon looking like a victim of domestic violence; it makes people look down on you.

The forecast is for freshening winds and showers later, so I pack my compact umbrella along with my reader in a slouchy shoulder bag, and away we go.

The place is surprisingly busy, but then I don't usually hang out at Harrods on a Wednesday afternoon. Hell, I don't usually hang out at Harrods, full stop. The sheer size of the salon that takes up the shop's fifth floor is a little overwhelming, but the staff is properly obsequious, and my stylist is adorable. "Jaque", as her nameplate has her, is all of five feet tall and hops about like an exotic, trim little bird. She makes me feel like a gangly giraffe, all knees and elbows knocking around.

Jaque has a photo on her phone that was emailed to the salon for my appointment, and she shows it to me so I can visualize the cut I'm to have. It's obviously a scan of a vintage photo; the woman in the picture is about my age, and very pretty. She has high cheekbones, wide blue eyes, and light blond hair cut in a classic shoulder-length bob; from her clothes I would say that the picture was taken mid-60's. Jaque holds up the picture beside my face and raises an eyebrow. "_Whoever she is, Miss, you look quite a lot like her. You could almost be sisters or something."_

I thank her for the compliment, and we fall into talking about the 60's styles, and hair, and other things that you chat about with a stranger who will shortly be holding very sharp implements very close to your head. Casual banter helps you feel easier about that.

Jaque is efficient, and very good. She's also very discreet, because when she flips the cape off of me at the end, shifting my scarf and uncovering most of the huge bruise on my shoulder, she doesn't miss a beat. She whirls my chair around to face the mirror, so I can see that I'm uncovered and have a chance to fix it, whilst she busies herself with some imaginary lint on the cape. Good woman. I give her some extra on the tip.

I like the cut fine, it flatters my face nicely, and the change makes me feel charged up. I keep flipping my head around to feel the thick sheaf of hair swishing freely around my neck. I look around for Steen as I make my way to one of the manicure rooms, but there are no tall, handsome blond bears in sight, so I send him a text before sitting down to argue with the manicurist about the shade of polish. As I suspected, that has already been specified, and "Janelle" is reluctant to deviate from her orders. They are my nails, so I win, but Janelle makes me promise to absolve her of all responsibility for the consequences of painting my nails pretty shell-pink instead of boring beige.

I emerge from the manicure room with my hands and feet pleasantly tingling from the massages and all the other attention, but my head is a bit woolly from the fumes, and I almost walk right by Steen without seeing him. For his part, he does a double-take at my new haircut, and we burst out laughing at each other. I launch myself around his neck for the usual inappropriate hug, and he staggers back slightly from my assault.

_"Hey! Careful, there, Angelica."_

I stand back a little and give him an eyeing._ "Since when did you get all weedy? Are you okay?"_ He looks pale to me, and has rings under his eyes.

_"I'm fine, I'm fine, girl. Really. C'mon, are you hungry? I'll buy you a bite, I owe you."_

_"Here? The food here is great, but...let's go someplace a bit more reasonable for tea, okay? You don't have to impress me!"_

_"Naw, let's make it an occasion, right? C'mon."_ He takes me by the hand like I'm a little girl, and we go down to the food court, deciding on the Cafe and Creperie for tea. As we're being seated, my mobile goes off with a "number unavailable" call. Damn telemarketers. I silence and ignore it.

All the awkwardness of the last time Steen and I met is forgotten, and it's like old times again. He keeps the conversation focused on me, which doesn't escape my notice at all. He's avoiding something, but I'll leave it alone for now, I have so much to tell him.

As I relate all about my attempts to follow Holmes, getting chased around the city, moving into the Knightsbridge flat and everything that happened there yesterday, my phone goes off twice more in a row with "number unavailable" calls; the last time that happened, it was a salesman trying to pitch me a timeshare vacation flat. I'm seriously thinking that I should turn off the ringer when a text comes through: "Answer your phone. MH" Holmes. Damn.

_"Steen, you know that thing that happens sometimes, when you are talking about someone, and then out of the blue they ring you?"_

_"Yeah..."_

_"Well, I'm going to have to take the next call, okay?"_

_"No worries,_" and he busies himself with pouring more tea.

The phone rings a moment later, and I answer right away. I'm guessing that Holmes is very cross with me, because his voice is exquisitely soft and pleasant as he tells me that I should expect him to visit at eight-thirty this evening, and to meet him downstairs. I am to be fully-prepared, he adds, because it will be a short visit; I take that to mean that he won't have time to play with shaving and such.

I answer, _"Absolutely, I'll be ready and waiting for you. Hey," _I add on impulse,_ "is Sherlock doing better? I hope he's behaving himself and on the mend again."_

There is a pause, then Holmes answers, "_He's fine. Thank you." _And then he hangs up.

I put my phone away with a shrug, and glance up to see Steen frowning at me. _"What?"_ I ask. _"What is it?"_

He shakes his head, and takes some more tea. _"What are you trying to do to that poor bloke?"_

Only Steen would call Mycroft Holmes a bloke, but I don't stop to discuss it. _"What do you mean?"_

_"Exactly what I said. What are you trying to do to him? The way you were talking just now to him, god, I could hear the emotional grappling hooks going out!"_ He makes his fingers into claws and mimes sinking them into my chest. "_Crikes, from what you said about yesterday, he's got troubles enough without you trying to get your harpy hooks into him."_

_" 'Harpy hooks'!? What the hell do you mean, 'harpy hooks'? Do you think I'm angling to...marry him or something? Jesus, Steen, he's old!" _I stab at my fruit salad with my fork, glaring.

_"No, no, no, that's not what I meant. I think you're after him emotionally, you're trying to get him to like you. C'mon, Angelica, bringing him drinky-poos when he's sad? Really? That's you taking advantage of a bloke when his defenses are down."_

_"Taking advantage? How is it taking advantage to be nice to someone when they're having a bad day? That's bollocks."_

_"Think about it. Why were you being nice? You want him to like you, to be close, and if he won't give you intimacy willingly, you'll take it by stalking him, or wheedle it by manipulating him. I've seen you do this before, you know. You can't stand someone not caring about you."_

_"What's wrong with that? What's wrong with people caring about each other, as long as they have good boundaries about it?"_

Steen rolls his eyes heavenward. "_Good boundaries, she says. Like it's just so simple."_

_"I don't think it's that complicated, really."_

_"Isn't it? Listen, girl, people are complicated, so why would anything to do with people be simple?"_ Steen reaches over and takes up a whole sausage roll in his fingers.

_"Lecture time, my Padawan learner, so listen up. Let's just pretend that this delicious roll represents relationships. Friendship, romantic love, whatever. The meat in the centre is the basic reason the people are together, the pastry is what gets laid down on top of that reason, gets added to it. So, whenever people interact with each other, every time they have an experience together, another layer of complication gets added onto the relationship, like this." _He points to the coil of flaky pastry around the core of sausage in the roll. _"The more intense the experience, the thicker the layer, eh? The layers, the interactions, pile up each time, they accumulate. If I'm going to put boundaries around this thing, this relationship, the layers are going to push against the boundaries, right?"_ He circles the roll tightly with his fingers.

_"If the layers get thick enough, the experiences intense enough, the boundaries are either going to have to move, or I am going to have to really work hard to keep them where they are."_ Ridiculously, he quietly mimes wrestling to keep his fingers around the sausage roll. _"So, after a while, it takes all the energy you can muster just to keep the damn thing from blowing up in your face, or from crumbling to bits." _

Steen plops the mangled roll on his plate and wipes his fingers with his serviette, looking at me expectantly. I decide to play along with his silliness.

_"So, Jedi Master Steen, how do we avoid the catastrophe of the sausage roll? Is there no hope for humanity?"_ I help myself to more tea, and a sausage roll of my own.

_"There's only one way out that I know of, Angelica, and that is to take the take the 'together' out of it entirely. If you both have your own experience and there's no involvement, no layers get added because you're not in it together, no matter how intense the experience is. Each stays separate, the boundaries don't get shifted, everybody stays safe."_

It's a silly analogy, but it suddenly makes terrible sense to me. "_Yeah, safe, and alone, and lonely. That's not what I want out of life! That's not healthy. Listen, I know-"_ I reach out to grab Steen's hand. _"I know how not to care too much. I know how to keep the boundaries with a client, I really do. You don't need to worry." _

Beautiful green eyes peer at me steadily. "_I've got my doubts, girl. I'm telling you, don't get involved. Isn't the money enough? Why do you have to go after the man's soul? You don't need that, and neither does he."_

_"Oh, my god, you are such a drama queen! Go after his soul? What the hell?"_ I lower my voice, then, because I realize that I've been getting louder. "_So, why does he matter to you? How do you know what he needs, or doesn't?"_

_"He doesn't matter, you do! I'd hate to see you have a sausage roll blow up in your face,"_ Steen gives me a flash of a white-toothed smile. _"And I know the bloke because he was one of my off-and-on regulars for years—years, girl! You get to know each other, even if you don't talk much."_

I shrug._ "Maybe it's time for him to change. I think he's having a mid-life crisis, actually. He's the right age for it, and he has all the markers. One of my books says it's like an iceberg inversion; apparently, icebergs can just spontaneously flip, under the right conditions, and all that stuff that was underwater and unseen, suddenly all that is on top and in the open, and you have to deal with it. The person becomes possessed by the parts of themselves that they haven't allowed to live."_

Steen shakes his head with an impatient noise. "_Pop psychology garbage."_

I give him a not-really-playful glare. _"You'd better be careful, Steen Dijkstra! You're almost forty, you know. Any minute now you are going to feel the urge to express the parts of you that you've been suppressing! You're going to cut your hair short, get a real job, and marry a woman half your age, named Betty. And have five kids."_

He gives me a look of mock horror. "_Oh, god, no, just shoot me now!" T_hen, he's serious again, _"But some people, Angelica, some people don't change so easily. They don't bend, they break, and it could get very messy if you're in the middle of it."_

"_Yes, Master Steen,"_ I sigh. And change the subject, because I'm tired of talking about it. We chat for a while about the murders, but neither of us has anything new on that topic. I ask Steen about the package he left for me at Sara's house, and he looks mysterious and tells me that we can't talk about it here, that we have to stop by his flat, and he'll fill me in there.

I look around surreptitiously. "_Are we being watched? Listened to?"_

He shakes his head, but says _"Probably not—but just in case, I think we should talk about it in private, okay?"_

_"Probably not? What have you got yourself into?"_ I demand, but he doesn't answer me, and I give it up for now.

Before we go to the stand to hire a cab and go to Steen's place, I make him go with me to choose out a few high-neck tops, and soon we are buried in a sea of racks in a quiet corner of the ladies' department.

_"High-neck? That's a new look for you, Angelica. Poor time of year for it, though, and I think you'd look better in this-"_ he holds up a very nice blue-green top with a wide, low neckline. _"Plays up those wide shoulders of yours, and that elegant neck, see? A high crew neck will just make you look chunky-monkey...whoa!"_ I have discreetly peeled back the scarf and shirt to show him the bruise on my shoulder. _"Hey, I didn't know you were getting into the heavy stuff. I thought you didn't like pain?"_

_"I don't. It was an accident, it really didn't hurt at the time..."_ Steen peers closely at the mark with an air of professional interest.

_"That is quite a piece of work. The pressure would have to be applied slowly and with a lot of restraint to keep from going through the skin."_ He shakes his head._ "Damn. Does he bite you a lot?"_

_"Sometimes. He's a bitey guy, isn't he? You know, oral fixation."_

Steen gives me an odd look. "_Never with me. Never. Not once. I think..." _He trails off, and gently covers up my shoulder for me.

_"You think what?" _

_"Well, I think somebody has some pretty specific anger issues, and that's all I'm going to say."_

I don't quiz him any further because I don't want to hear it, and instead we find me some things that I can wear and be socially acceptable until I heal up. During the cab ride to his flat, Steen gives me his take on aftercare for bruises and other job-related injuries, for future reference, and we both notice the cabbie's ears turning red a few times. We exchange grins, and it's hard to keep from laughing out loud.

Things don't get weird until we reach his flat, but then they go completely balls-up.

Steen's flat has been broken into, and ransacked. The place is an unholy mess, just torn apart. Shocked and furious, I whip out my phone to call the police, but Steen knocks the mobile out of my hand before I can dial. _"Hey!"_ I shout, retrieving it from the floor.

_"No police, for god's sake. Please, just let me deal with it. I don't think they took anything, I really doubt it."_

_"Why? What were they looking for? What's going on?"_

_"We can't stay here to talk. C'mon."_ Steen grabs my hand and pulls me out of the flat and down the stairs again. As we round the last landing and are nearly down, two young men start coming up, and block our way. Steen tries to push me behind him, back up the stairs, hissing, _"Get out of here, Angel. Go!"_

I look at the blokes standing there a few steps below us. They are weedy, greasy boys, dressed in dirty t-shirts and jeans, and look unarmed except for a nasty attitude. I'm nearly a head taller than either of them, and Steen is broader than both put together. I look at Steen, and back at the blokes. _"No,"_ I say to everyone in general. _"No, I am not getting out of here. You,"_ I tell the greasers, _"you are going to move out of our way._" I am so angry, I really hope they give me an excuse to do some harm.

One of them says something to the other in a language I should recognize, but don't, and he says to Steen in English, "_We want the torch, Dijkstra, and we want it now, or we are going to beat it out of your poofy ass!"_ They both start to move up the steps; Steen shouts something and starts toward them, but I beat all three of them to the punch.

The stupid bastards are at the worst possible disadvantage they could be. I have gravity, reach, and surprise on my side. The first one goes over the banister before he knows what hit him. The second one has time to see my foot coming up to connect with his face, but not enough time to do anything about it.

Steen stands there, looking at me like I've sprouted horns or something, and then looks at the unconscious punks. I just shrug. _"Karate brown belt. I should've gone on for the black, but I lost interest."_

He shakes his head. "_We...we really need to get out of here. I have to figure this out."_

_"How about your local? I could do with a pint of cider about now."_

_"That's as good as anything, I guess."_

One of Steen's neighbors comes into the entry way, and looks from the body lying at the foot of the stairs to us with consternation. We both smile and give the lady a breezy wave as we vault the rest of the way down the steps and head out into the street. It's getting darker outside, and the wind is really whipping around, but the showers haven't started yet.

Steen and I make for the neighborhood pub, and take a table in a quiet corner by the back door. I am still shaking from the adrenaline rush, and suck down a cold cider in hopes that the alcohol will steady me. Steen holds his head in his hands, looking down at his untouched pint.

_"It's time for you to tell me what the hell is going on,"_ I tell him quietly.

He shakes his head. _"The less you know, the better for you. I'm sorry you're here at all, I didn't think they knew where I lived. I thought I had heaps more time than this."_

_"How about you give me just a general idea of what's going on, then? Let's start with, what were they looking for in your flat? The one guy said something about a torch. What torch?"_

Steen shakes his head again. "_All I can tell you is that something fell into my hands, that some people want. It'll be bad if any of them gets hold of it, but I can't just destroy it, either, and I can't go to the police with it. Don't ask, I just can't. It won't matter in a few months anyway, so all I have to do is keep dodging them for a while longer."_

_"Well, it looks like dodging them just got a lot harder."_

_"Yeah, it has."_ He takes a pull at his pint. "_Right. I'm going to have to leave the country for a while, that's the only thing I can think of."_

"_Adelaide, or Amsterdam?"_ I know he has family in both places, but not which one he might be able to run to.

_"I'm going to do you a favor and not tell you. Like I said, the less you know, the better. We're going to leave here, and I am going to stop at a cashpoint to empty my current account, right? And then we'll go to the taxi stand, and I will put you in a taxi to get you back to your flat, and I will take one to the airport and get the hell out of here on the first flight possible. Sound like a plan?"_

_"If that's what you want to do, I'm for it. One last thing, though."_

_"What?"_

_"Does that package you left for me at Sara's have anything to do with any of this mess?"/i_

_"No, it doesn't,"_ he says, but he looks away when he says it. _"It's just a book I thought you might like to read. You're the only one of my friends who cares anything for books or reading. Hang onto it for me, though, after you're finished? I'll want it back."_

_"Sure. No problem."_

We are both nervous as we leave the pub and hit the cashpoint, but there are no more followers. There is, however, a police car in front of Steen's building, so we make sure to take the long way around the block to get to the nearest taxi stand.

Steen tries to give me the fare for the cab back to Knightsbridge, but I tell him he needs to conserve his cash. I expect to just give him a quick hug and go, but he is suddenly very emotional. He holds me tight, parking his chin on top of my head. "_You're like the little sister I never wanted, you know? Take care of yourself, girl. Just—I don't know, just take care. I'll contact you when I can. It'll come right, you'll see."_

_"Looks like we added a fat layer onto that sausage roll today, didn't we, Obi-wan?"_ I grin, and Steen gives me a wan smile and a kiss on the forehead. As he tucks me into the taxi, it starts to rain in earnest.

# # #

I spend the rest of the day and evening watching it pour outside, and trying to pull the pieces together about what happened this afternoon.

In the end, all I have are more questions. What could be so important about a torch? How would Steen get his hands on a torch that mattered, and why would it not matter anymore in a few months? I simply cannot make any sense of it, there's just not enough information.

When the clock flashes to eight-thirty, I'm curled up on the sofa, reading. I hear the front door being unlocked. It swings open, and Holmes steps through, umbrella-first, dripping. He quickly holsters it in the umbrella stand, and sets a slim briefcase down on the floor beside. He shuts the door and turns the deadbolt. I put down my reader and come over to lean against the stair railing.

_"Hey."_ I say and fluff my my fingers through the even-cut bottom of my new hairstyle. It still feels strange to my fingers.

Holmes turns, and regards me, his face completely neutral. He's not cold and menacing, but he's not the guy who yesterday was sitting on the sofa fretting, either. This is another Holmes entirely. He smiles a faint, pleasant smile, and says in a milky voice, _"Well, you had an exciting day with your Australian friend, didn't you?"_ The way he says "friend" it could be a swear word, and I'm completely unsurprised that Holmes knows something about what happened today; I'd be shocked if he didn't.

But he continues. "_You have a choice to make, Angel. You can stay in my employ, or you can continue to carry on with your friend. You cannot do both."_

That is completely unexpected. "_What? Why? What's wrong with Steen...?"_

_"Oh, I'm sure that there's nothing wrong with him, per se. It's the company he keeps these days."_ Holmes leans forward, into my face a little, and lowers his voice dramatically. _"Drug dealers, Angel. Importers of illegal substances. People that we keep a watch on, and your Australian is involved with them. I'm sure you understand my position."_

Damn it, Steen! Damn it all to hell. "_You're sure?"_ Holmes just gives me a look, a please-don't-be-stupid look. _"Right, of course you're sure."_ I sigh deeply. _"Well, he beat you to it, actually. He...told me today that I wouldn't be hearing from him for a while, that he was leaving the country shortly." _I shrug_. "So, I guess it's a moot point, isn't it?"_

_"Please see that it remains moot."_ He puts his hands in his pockets, and his tongue goes between his molars for a moment. _"I would also like to remind you that your contract with me specifies that you will refrain from other liasions for the duration..."_

_"Steen and I didn't—I mean, we don't—we aren't involved that way, we never have been..." _

Holmes gives me a faint smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "_Certainly, of course. Just a reminder, then."_ His eyes are narrowed, pupils contracted. He doesn't believe me. Fine, whatever.

_"Now, I'd like to clarify things for you, regarding your position here. I believe you have become confused."_ He rolls up on his toes. What now? _"Please understand that you and I are not 'pals.' Your queries about my personal life are not welcome, and no more of it will be tolerated. Am I making myself clear?"_

I bite my lip; I really shouldn't have asked about Sherlock on the phone earlier today. _"It's a friendly business, but we're not friends?"_

He nods emphatically. _"Precisely. No more attempts to socialize, please. I've asked you before to be quiet."_

What? Oh, come on! "_That's true, you did. Then you sat over there with your newspaper and talked to me. So, am I supposed to just ignore you? What, exactly, do you want from me?_" I cross my arms defensively. _"Perhaps I'm not the only one who is feeling confused here. Sir."_

He draws in a breath, with raised eyebrows, and I can hear the sarcasm gathering—then the tongue goes back between the teeth, and he looks down and away from me. He sighs. _"Perhaps not."_ And I glimpse _him_ again for a moment, the guy who fusses and worries and hugs like a lost child.

But the moment passes, and Holmes folds his expression back into totally neutral—however, he crosses his arms, and I wonder, does he know he's mirroring me? _"Perhaps both of us need to make an effort to remain...businesslike. That, exactly, is what I want from you." _

I nod. _"I can do that, as long as you do. Just...let's not take it amiss if either of us need reminding now and again, okay? It's a very friendly sort of business. Easy to get confused."_

_"Yes. Yes, it is."_

Then I give him a questioning sort of look, and wait. He glances upstairs, and nods to me. I start up the stairs, but I'm halted by a soft chime from Holmes' breast pocket, and he takes out his phone to look at the text with a sigh.

_"Well, it's back to the office for me. Looks like you get a reprieve tonight."_

I go back down the steps. _"But you don't."_

Shaking his head, he picks up the briefcase and umbrella, dialing his phone with the thumb of one hand. "_No, I don't."_

I open the door for him, and he goes out the way he came in, umbrella-first. The rain is still pouring down. Holmes shakes his brolly open and, speaking quietly on his phone, starts off down the cobbles toward the headlights of a waiting car.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine: "There is that in the glance of a flower which may at times control the greatest of creation's braggart lords." ~ John Muir**

"Businesslike" lasted all of twenty-four hours. I'm standing under the little overhang in front of the flat, trying to keep reasonably dry as I scroll through the numbers on my phone, looking for the minicab I usually call. If it wasn't raining quite so much, or if I had thought to grab my umbrella—or his!-then I would just take off walking, but I'm not going back in there to get one. I don't care if I ever go back in.

Despite being grey and drizzly, today was great until just a few minutes ago; I got up and away early to avoid the Thursday housekeeper, spent the morning at the gym, and then met with my friends Amy and Christine for lunch and noon-time window-shopping. They were about as much fun as I expected them to be-

Listen to me damn them with faint praise! There are a few downsides to escort work, and a big one is relationships. Like, whom do you tell that you've taken to upscale whoring to pay the bills? Whom don't you tell? Amy and Tina are friends I made at uni, and they're smart and funny and very, very conventional; I know they wouldn't be okay with what I do for a living, so I lie. And since most of what I'm telling them is a lie and I can't ever relax around them, they're not so much fun anymore.

But if you tell friends what you do, as in total disclosure, then they get very, very uncomfortable around you, and mysteriously have other engagements whenever you call. Been there, done that. It must be what coming out is like. I think of Steen then, and break a grin; he has the funniest coming-out story ever, about the day his gran found out that he was gay and an escort, to boot. I hope that big idiot is okay, wherever he is right now.

A gust of wind blows some of the light rain against my bare arms and legs, and I shiver. I wish I'd thrown on warmer clothes, or grabbed a jacket or something, but I didn't know that it had turned quite so chilly outside. Finally, I find the number for the cab driver, and punch it in impatiently, shielding my phone from the stray splatters of rain.

Holmes had been businesslike enough when he called this afternoon, telling me to expect him at half past eight tonight. I was businesslike as I acknowledged it. It was all very efficient and businesslike when he came upstairs at the appointed time, sat down in the armchair, and stretched his long legs out, relaxing into his ritual of enjoyment. It was very businesslike right up until he slid the top of my dress down off my shoulders, and saw the colourful bruise there, the outline of teeth now clearly visible in darker purpling, although the span of it was starting to fade into green and yellow at the further edges.

His eyes had widened and his cheeks burned with bright red patches, like he had been slapped. Swallowing, he looked at me, then back down at the mark.

_"Well,"_ he said. He quickly regained his composure, although his cheeks stayed slightly flushed._ "Well, that won't do at all."_ He leaned in close, examining the bruise. _"That certainly is my bicuspid. I can't have anyone seeing this. You'll have to stay in until it heals completely, I should think in another six or seven days, possibly as much as a fortnight."_

_"What? No."_ Two weeks of house arrest? He's mad. _"No way. Look, I've been covering it quite nicely for two days now with nobody the wiser. There's no need for me to hide away."_

_"Clothing can slip, makeup can rub off. You will simply have to stay indoors, here, until Wednesday at least. I will re-assess the situation and make a decision then."_ He turned away from me as if the matter was settled, and reached for the black gym bag. "_Off with the rest of it, please."_

_"No."_ I folded my arms stubbornly. _"No, not until we settle this. I am NOT putting myself under house arrest over an easily-concealed bruise. That's stupid, and I won't do it."_

He turned around slowly, and his face was a tightly-controlled mask of neutrality. He gave me a careful slight frown then, as if of concern. _"You are in breach of your contract,"_ he said softly.

_"So are you,"_ I replied, matching his tone. "_You may not restrict my activities."_

_"Except where they might impact on my reputation, Miss Talbot. I believe that this qualifies."_

_"I disagree. The mark can be covered up, like it has been, until it heals. I'm not going to be showing it around, and the chances of an accidental exposure are slim." I_ didn't mention about the stylist, Jaque, seeing it. _"I've even bought some new clothes just to keep it covered securely. Requiring me to hide away is an overreaction."_

He raised an eyebrow at that. _"Overreaction? Think whatever you like. You will stay here, out of the public eye, until I am satisfied that the mark is sufficiently faded, or our agreement is terminated."_ That last was carefully enunciated, then he pressed his lips together in a tight line, narrowing his eyes at me with a little twitch.

I've never played poker, but I've heard of "calling the bluff." I called his bluff. I slid my slinky red dress back up over my shoulders, slipped into some shoes, and went downstairs. I stuffed my reader into my handbag, and only paused in the entryway long enough to call up the stairs, _"If you would be so kind, Mr. Holmes, please have my things sent along to my sister's flat when convenient. Oh, and you might try a prescription for Luna; I've read that it's a very effective new sleeping aid. Good luck."_ The door made a satisfying "thump" when it closed behind me.

So now I'm freezing my arse off, standing here in the blowing rain, trying get my phone to work. I used it not half an hour ago to talk to Sara and it was fine, but now it's not dialing.

The status bar says there is no signal. How the hell can I have no signal? I'm in the bloody middle of bloody London; there is so much signal here that loonies walk around in tinfoil hats to shed the excess, how can my phone not be finding any?

Could he...? No way. Is that even possible? Well, why not? I can imagine him up there as I was leaving, phoning one of his assistants, "Be a good fellow and just jam up her signal, will you, there's a chap. No, don't kill her yet, let's just terrorize her a little."

Okay, so it probably didn't go like that, but it's not so far-fetched that he could have my mobile signal jammed if he wanted to. I've seen what he can make happen.

Why would he want to?

Could be a show of power and control. I called his bluff, he's showing me that he has power over me, so I shouldn't fight him. Could be.

Could be he's trying to frighten me, intimidate me. He's used intimidation before, I'll bet it's one of his favorite tactics.

Bloody bastard. Who does he think he is? I am starting to work myself into a righteous fury, when I suddenly remember a saying of one of my favorite psych professors: Behavior is communication. He used to say that over and over, Behavior is communication. What is the behavior? Holmes is making it difficult for me to leave. He's not preventing me or overtly threatening me, he's just making it difficult. I can walk away, I can run away, I just can't call a cab to come and drive me away in comfort.

What is being communicated? I can go away if I want to, but he'd rather I didn't. He's not the sort of man to come out here and say, Please don't go.

And, the bit about power is definitely in there as well. Very elegant way to make multiple points.

I put my phone away in my handbag so it will keep dry, as the gusts are blowing more chilly rain at me. I have to make a decision: I can't stay out here all night, and I really don't fancy walking to the Tube station in the wet and riding the train to Sara's dressed in a soaking, see-through, scanty red dress. I like attention, but not of that sort.

So, I'm going to go back inside, like he wants me to. What then? I won't go meekly like a little lambie. I'm not giving in on this stupid house arrest thing. On the other hand, I didn't exactly try to negotiate a compromise with him. Good grief, he must really feel ashamed of hurting me like that, to be so paranoid about being found out...Oh! Aaannd, there it is.

In a flash of insight the thread is clear to me. I see how to handle this; I know what it's for. I know what needs to happen. I turn around and charge back through the blue door before I have a chance to lose my nerve.

The flat is quiet; he's turned off the music. Holmes is sitting on the sofa, a drink before him on the coffee table, elbows on his knees and palms together under his chin, like I saw him when he took refuge at that wedding. He doesn't look up as I come in. I take up the fringed throw from one of the armchairs to wrap up in, and I sit down, kicking my soggy shoes off and hugging the throw around me.

I impulsively, intuitively say the first thing that comes into my head. "_You know, I get so frustrated with you, I could just blow my brains out."_

His eyes flicker over at me, once, and his lips barely move as he says clearly, "_Wherever would you aim?"_

Yes, that's it, right there. I lean forward toward him, urgently. "_You know, I can tell you aren't a rude person, yet you're often rude to me. You aren't a cruel person, either, yet you can't help wanting to hurt me. Why is that, do you think?"_

He just closes his eyes, and gives his head an imperceptible shake. He won't go there. All right, I'm going to do it for him. "_You aren't used to needing anyone, for anything, are you?"_ He raises his eyelids and looks at me, nothing alive in his face but those intense blue eyes. "_But now you find that you need someone, Me! and you resent the hell out of that, don't you? You resent needing me, and you resent me. You weren't just talking about Sherlock the other day, you were talking about yourself."_

He blinks then, a long, slow, owl-like blink. I'm not sure what that means, so I press on, relentless. "_Resentment molders into anger, and anger festers into hatred—and something like hatred can't be completely suppressed, it will out, in the strangest ways. Like sarcasm, and aggression. Biting words, biting teeth..."_

His eyes slide away from me, and his head twitches ever so slightly away. I mustn't hammer too hard on that point.

_"This thing on my shoulder represents all of that, the whole shitty mess, doesn't it? So the thought that anybody would see it becomes completely unendurable."_ His eyes flicker up to me again, and he raises an eyebrow, just a hair.

I get up, holding the throw still wrapped around me._ "I'm not going to be imprisoned in this flat for a fortnight because of your unresolved issues. I simply won't. But I am willing to compromise a bit, if you are willing to. If not, then that's that. and we're done."_

I go upstairs, then, because I'm chilled to the bone and all I want is a hot bath to warm me up; I toss in some lavender salts to make the water a pretty purple and smell nice. Ahhhh. You wouldn't think I could get so cold on a night in late July, honestly. What a lousy climate. One of these days I'm moving someplace where they actually have summer.

I soak every bit of myself in the steamy lavender water, right up to the top of my head, until I'm rosy and warm again, then wrap up in a thick towel and use another one to ruffle around and dry my hair. A nice benefit of shorter hair is how quickly it dries with just a good toweling.

When I come out of the bathroom, all tousled and be-toweled, I'm kind of surprised to see Holmes sitting in the armchair beside the bed, in just his trousers and rolled-up shirtsleeves. I really thought he had left, since the flat was so quiet. He gets up slowly from the chair, puts his hands in his pockets, and regards me solemnly.

_"I believe I owe you an apology."_

_"Not at all,"_ I reply pertly. _"It's all just part of the friendly service."_

He actually almost smiles at that, and tucks his tongue in his cheek as he looks down. He comes over to where I am, standing beside the wardrobe, and looks at my hair with a frown. He begins to lightly re-arrange the messy strands, carefully tucking it behind my ears.

_"I've always known exactly what I was doing, you know,"_ he says absently. _"Always. People around me were...less capable than I would have liked...I've always taken care of myself. So it would be done properly."_ He is totally absorbed in arranging each and every strand of my hair where it belongs; his gaze is a million miles away.

_"I have always known exactly what I was doing, and why I was doing it-until now. When I come here, to you...I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I just don't know. Can you imagine?"_ Here, he pauses his busy fingers, and looks into my face. _"Imagine me, not knowing what I'm doing. Terrifying."_

I hold his eyes with mine, and wait for the words to come to me. "_Maybe it's time for that, to experience not knowing. Maybe right now you just need one corner of your life to be a little...messy."_

He looks slightly aghast, and shakes his head, smoothing my hair into perfect shape. His eyes slide down to the top of my shoulder, followed by slender fingers; he gently brushes over the vivid purple mark there and down the curve of my bare shoulder and arm, then firmly grasps my wrist. "_So beautiful, and I've marred you. I'm sorry."_

Wow. He's sorry to have marred something beautiful-not sorry that he hurt me. Now, that's a telling statement if I've ever heard one. Sympathy, but no empathy.

I shrug. "_It will heal quickly enough, there won't be a scar."_

He nods, then un-tucks the towel I have wrapped around me, and it falls in a damp heap to the floor. He wraps his free hand around my other wrist, then pulls both of my arms behind me and upwards as he draws me towards him, pressing his cheek against mine; he doesn't have to lean down. There is just the faintest rasp of beard on my sensitive cheek, and I am enveloped in the smell of him: gentleman's cologne, plain soap, and traces of a muskiness that has to be the man himself.

My arms are pinioned behind me, pretzel-twisted as he holds me tightly and nuzzles into the side of my neck. My breath catches and I shudder when he gets around my ear, and the bastard starts to play with that, using his lips, teeth and tongue to just about send me silently screaming. He attends thoroughly to the other side, with the same results. I can feel his breath coming quicker and sharper, and the urgent press of his body against mine leaves no doubt that he is ready for me, right now.

He releases my arms to rummage in the black bag, pulling out the leather fetters, and his fingers tremble just a little as he buckles them around my wrists. He pulls my arms back behind me to clip my wrists together at my waist, and moves me over to the bed, guiding me to lay down on my back in the middle of it.

Turning to the clothing rack, he flips his braces off his shoulders quickly, hardly folding his trousers as he takes them off, and I've never seen a man unbutton and hang up a shirt so fast. I have a flicker of hope that the rest might be coming off, too, but alas, the damned vest and pants stay right where they are.

When he lies down beside me, his eyes laser-lock on mine as he fondles and caresses me, breaking only to find and apply a condom. He puts my legs over his shoulders then, and once again we are face-to-face, eye-to-eye as he moves in me. The contact is easier for me this time; although I still feel laid bare by it, I'm not so raw.

As the climax takes him, his whole body shudders and trembles with it, but he still doesn't blink. It seems to go on forever, then he finally closes his eyes and collapses on top of me, gasping. If I were a frail little thing I would have the air squashed out of me, but I'm no wisp of a girl.

After a few minutes, he rolls off, I expect to do his usual road-runner routine-but he doesn't. He lies beside me, still breathing heavily, looking in my face with solemn regard.

Unexpectedly, he says, _"It's harder to tell with women, but you didn't orgasm, did you?"_

Oh, lord, he's not going to turn into one of those, is he? "_No, and no thank you."_

_"Why not?"_ he asks.

_"I don't want to. That's all."_

He reaches down. _"I could make you..."_

I writhe away from his probing fingers. _"No, you can't."_ The look he gives me means a challenge has been issued, and he shifts around to better reach me. _"No, really, I mean it. You can't. You can work at it all night, and I wouldn't have an orgasm. You could put an electro-stim down there, and I wouldn't come."_ He looks skeptical at that, and I shake my head for emphasis._ "Nope. You can force the neural reflex, but you can't force a real orgasm. Sorry."_

_"I'm not interested in forcing you, I just don't understand why someone who obviously enjoys sex as much as you do,"_ here he holds up his sticky, wet hand in wonder, "_doesn't want to be pleasured in turn."_

_"Oh, you understand all right. It's about boundaries; we all draw our own lines. You don't french kiss, do you?"_

He makes a face. "_No. It's far too...intimate."_

_"Nor get fully undressed..."_

_"I don't care to be touched."_

_"See? Boundaries. I told you that you already understand. By the way, I'd like to point out that this conversation is hardly businesslike, and is even perilously close to socializing."_

His lips curve in a ghost of a smile. "_Yes. It is rather messy, isn't it?"_

I silently turn my face to look up at the underside of the canopy. It has tiny green flowers on it. He rises up on one elbow so we are face-to-face again.

_"This is an odd thing to be negotiating about, but what would it take for you to allow me to pleasure you?"_

_"Why? Why does it matter?"_

He shrugs. _"I'm curious. I want to know what you look like, what you sound like. I believe you are familiar with sudden urges of intense curiosity..."_ His faint smile now has a demonic cast to it.

Bastard. I let out a loud sigh. "_How about if I just fake one for you? Would that be sufficient? I'm very good, most people can't even tell the difference."_

_"I am not most people,"_ he says that with only a touch of arrogance.

_"No, you're not."_ I sigh again, and I realize that he's not going to let go of this. Then I have an idea. Sweetly, I say, _"Hey, I know, we can barter. Let's say, you take off your vest and pants, the full Monty, and I'll let you make me squeal for real."_ There, he's not going to go for that, not with all his issues.

He frowns, and looks a little suspicious. "_Why would you care if I were naked or not?"_

_"I don't like the feel of cloth, I like skin,"_ I say honestly, and silently add _ And you look a right berk._ He hesitates like he's actually thinking about it, and I start to doubt my strategy.

Then I cannot believe my eyes. The bastard calls my bluff. He kneels up on the bed, skinning off his vest and pants quick as a flash, then lies back down beside me. _"Now, then,"_ he says languidly, reaching downward again. "_You squeal, do you? That's very interesting."_

Bloodybloodybloodyhell. His fingers slither around, randomly hitting sensitive spots that send a shiver through me; he obviously has very little idea of what he's doing. I could try to fake it, but I really do think he would know the difference. I sigh, and tell myself to stop being silly; I proposed a dare, and I misjudged it and lost. So, buck up and let's get it over with.

_"Okay, okay, okay. Just this once, alright? So, this would be the easiest way..."_ I outline for him how to position his hand, palm-up, so his thumb is resting on my very-aroused clit, and two long fingers are poised to thrust deep against my engorged g-spot. It takes him a few minutes to get coordinated and get a rhythm going, but in a very short time I am writhing around for real. He bends his head down to flick his tongue across my erect nipples now and then, or run his teeth against my ear, both of which send me even higher.

I have my eyes closed, and there is nothing real except the intense pleasure of his strong fingers strumming me deeper and deeper into myself. I am dimly aware that the tension is making my body arch off the bed; I am suspended between my heels and the top of my head, with everything in-between thrusting up toward his remorseless, delicious hand. Then, like a bow-string when the shaft is loosed, I snap downward in release, with a full-throated cry that quivers on and on.

It seems like it's never going to stop, but eventually the waves recede and I can breathe again, my breath coming in short gasps. I can tell he's not sure if he should keep up what he's doing, because the rhythm is gone and it's starting to get annoying, so I clamp my legs together and shift away. He slides his wet hand along my heaving belly, and I open my eyes to see him gazing at me with something like total surprise, and a little awe.

_"Interesting. Very interesting,"_ is what he says, but he doesn't look so clinical as that. I can feel his body against mine, skin to skin finally, and I can also feel that he is aroused again, not rock-hard and straining, but definitely interested.

Twice in the same night is fairly unusual for a man at his age, but I guess watching me has too much of an effect to ignore. I am still flopping around like jelly, so relaxed that I can hardly stir myself, so he just rolls me over and shoves a pillow under the front of my hips, hoisting my bum into the air, and slides into me again from behind, moving hard and fast. After this one, though, he doesn't rest against me at all, but jumps away like usual as soon as he's caught his breath.

I hear him in the bathroom, taking a shower, and I roll over and work my legs and feet over the top of my bound wrists, so my arms are in front of me; my shoulders were beginning to get a little tired of being rotated behind. I could use my teeth to undo the buckles, but I want him to do it, so I curl up with my head on the pillow and wait.

It doesn't take him long, and he does his usual thing, getting dressed quickly and precisely. When he has his tie knotted and waistcoat buttoned, he reaches over the bed and unbuckles one of my wrists, then one fingertip gently taps the top of my shoulder where the bruise is.

_"It really is very important to me that you keep that covered, Angel."_

_"I know it is. I don't want anyone to see it either, it's...tacky. I really can keep it out of sight, though. I wasn't joking about buying new shirts just for that."_

_"I should reimburse you the cost of those..."_

_"Would you stop already with the guilt? It's not a big deal, really it's not. But I'll go out as little as possible for the next few days, okay? The only thing I really want to go do is to see my sister this weekend, maybe Sunday."_

_"I'd appreciate if you could keep Sunday free. If all goes well, an extremely difficult situation should be resolved by then, and I shall be able to take the entire day off. I would enjoy not having to rush."_

_"I can do that, Saturday would work just as well to visit Sara. Ring me when you know the time for Sunday."_

_"Yes."_

Then, he's gone, and I'm left alone with my thoughts. What the hell just happened? I swore to myself when I started this job that there were some parts of myself that I wouldn't give away to any client, no matter what, and here I am doing just that.

I examine my feelings about Holmes. Is Steen right, am I just trying to get my emotional hooks into the man? Am I falling in love? There isn't that insane craving for his company that I get when I'm in love, I know that for sure. It's...interesting when Holmes is here, but I actually feel relieved when he leaves. I still want to know more about him, but it's very different from other times I've been involved.

I'm attached to him, though. That's it, attached, in a very odd way. I wonder what he feels about me, but I doubt that he could articulate it, even if he would care to try.

I tidy up and wander downstairs for a late snack before going to bed. I toast a bagel and make some milky tea, curling up on the sofa to enjoy it, but then there is the faint chime from my handbag. My phone is telling me that there are new messages.

I check it, and see that Holmes must have had my mobile service restored, since I now have signal and two voicemail messages. The first is from my manager, just a routine check-in; the second is from Steen, and is very disturbing. He's just babbling, and I can hardly hear what he's saying over the sounds of traffic in the background.

_"Angelica, Angel girl, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, but you have to get the torch to the pigman, I'm sorry to do this to you, but you have to, okay? That's the only way to stop this thing, take it to the pigman, eh? Right away!"_

I play it twice, and still can't make head or tails of it. I ring him back, but the call goes straight to his mailbox, which is full. Since I can't leave a voice message, I send him a text instead, asking him to try calling again.

The torch? To the pigman? I would love to know what the hell is going on, but there's nothing I can do for him right now. I carefully save the message for further investigation, and go to bed.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten: "One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small/ And the ones that Mother gives you, don't do anything at all/ Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall..." ~ Jefferson Airplane 'White Rabbit'**

I wake up the next morning absolutely certain that I have to get a look at that book that Steen left for me at Sara's flat. I don't want to wait until tomorrow, it can't wait.

Over breakfast I listen to Steen's message again, and it still makes no sense at all. He seems to think that I know what "the torch" is, but I have no idea. The fool Aussie hasn't phoned or texted back to me, so I ring him again to see if anything is changed-nope, still goes straight to his full voice mailbox, so his phone is turned off, or busy.

I text Sara that I'm going over to the flat to pick up the book and see Pablo, but I get impatient waiting for a reply and phone her. She tells me that the package my friend left is in my room at her flat, and that Saturday will be fine for me to come round for tea if I have to work on Sunday. After yesterday afternoon with Christine and Amy, it's a relief to be able to casually refer to "work," knowing that Sara knows exactly what I mean, and that there will be no awkward questions. I love my sister.

I'm all fired up now to look at that book; I'm sure that Steen was being evasive when he said it was just something he thought I might enjoy reading. It's got to have more significance than that-besides, I don't have anything else to go on, and not knowing is driving me mad. I go to shower and get dressed quickly.

I take a good look the the bruise on my shoulder and see that the thing is slightly fading, but it still looks like hell. I choose out a high-necked shirt, sleeveless and cut-away at the point of the shoulder. It's also very snug-fitting, and a flattering shade of turquoise-like Steen told me when we went shopping, I don't have to dress like a granny to keep things covered up. There's no need to cover my lower half very much, so I don't; miniskirts are a fashion I wear very well.

The chilly rain from last night has given way to warm, humid breezes under grey skies. It feels almost tropical, and I'm sweating a little by the time I get to the Tube station. Despite that, I decide that I'm going to get off the train a few miles from Sara's to do a little exercise walking; it'll cut down on the time I have to spend on the treadmill later today. I take off at a very quick pace.

That's when I notice the two men following me. They are not exactly dogging my steps, just keeping up with me a few yards back, but since we are the only ones going so fast they are easy to spot. Just to check that I'm not merely being paranoid, I duck into a shop for a while and pretend to be very interested in the office supplies on the shelves. When I emerge from the shop and continue on my way, the same men are once more behind me.

So, now what? Why am I being followed? I stop at a newsstand to look at the headlines, and think for a moment. The two men, both very casually dressed in blue jeans and t-shirts, are standing in front of a greengrocer's maybe 30 feet away, examining the melons. I consider. One of them looks a little familiar, and might be one of the suits that Holmes had sent after me that night after the wedding.

There's only one way to make sure. I walk quickly up to the men, who turn and stare at me like I've grown a second head. Up close, I'm absolutely sure that I've seen one before; he was the suit who hauled me out of the car by my arm.

I move in close and fix them with a friendly smile. _"Hello, gentlemen. I hope I'm not overtaxing you with this pace, am I?"_

To their credit, they are professionals, and they hardly miss a beat._ "Sorry, miss, but we don't know what you're talking about. Are you feeling well?"_ The arm-hauler is nervous; he's shifted his body away from me and his blink rate has increased. I bet he suspects that I recognize him.

_"I'm very well, thank you. But I am worried about you,"_ I look from one to the other._ "I'm sure that you can track me by my phone, so I'm not worried about losing you, but it's a warm day and I don't want to be responsible for any heat stroke. Although,"_ and here I let the bad girl come through, and I give them both a long, slow, appreciative look up and down._ "Although, you both look quite fit. Very fit, in fact. I'll bet you can go the distance, and then some."_ I purr this with my best suggestive smile, hoping that the distraction will throw them off their game.

Arm-hauler clears his throat._ "You needn't worry about us, Miss."_

_"Talbot. Miss Talbot. I don't know if Mr. Holmes told you my name..."_ and they both blink at that, forgetting that they should be mystified. Holmes's men, then. No need to waste any more time with these two._ "Enjoy your day, gentlemen._" And I wiggle off on my way.

So he's keeping me under surveillance, and maybe has been all along, I don't know. So, why is that necessary? I don't think he would expend the manpower to have me followed without good reason. It could be because I'm in danger; it could be because I'm dangerous...

However, I have to admit that if I had a secret service at my disposal, I'd have him followed. I'm just that way, and that would be reason enough. I have to consider that it might be for him as well. There's no need to manufacture danger and intrigue where there might not be any.

Walking along, I consider the situation. A contingency plan jells in my mind, and I make a mental note to talk to Sara about it later.

Soon enough I'm letting myself into Sara's flat, walking in with a happy smile. Knightsbridge is posh and beautiful, but my sister's place feels like home, right down to the shabby, familiar furniture and family photos on the walls. I wrinkle my nose at the faint odor of catbox, though; Sara isn't so good about those little maintenance things.

On the heels of the odor, Pablo comes sauntering into the room. The big grey tabby winds around my ankles just enough to get my attention, then, when I greet him and bend down to rub his head, he saunters off flipping his tail. Yep, he's cross with me. I'll ignore him good and proper until he decides to allow me to apologize.

My room is pretty much the same as I left it. There is a small stack of correspondence atop the chest of drawers, and beside that, a smallish brown paper package. It's addressed to me, as if Steen intended to post it but changed his mind. I eagerly rip it open to find a well-thumbed paperback novel, with a worn red-orange cover depicting a partly-clothed couple in a lurid embrace. The title is...in cyrillic. A Russian romance novel? Does Steen even read Russian? I can puzzle it out with a dictionary, as Holmes so dismissively put it. I love poetry and I hate reading poetry in translation, so I've learned a few languages in a haphazard way.

I feel rather disappointed as I ruffle through the dog-eared little book. As a clue, this is pretty pathetic. There's a name, written in blue ink on the flyleaf page at the top, like people do when they lend out their books. It's also in cyrillic; I can't make out the last name, but the first name is Lyuba.

Lyuba was quite a slow reader, and couldn't seem to find a bookmark, because lots of the pages are dog-eared at the top or the bottom, or both. There's no writing in it that I can see aside from the name scrawled in the front. As I ruffle through the pages again, a slip of paper falls out.

I scoop the slip up from the floor, and look at it closely. It's a tattered scrap, torn from a larger sheet of blank paper. "Evan McCutcheon" is printed in bold black letters, and "Verge, 3rd floor, Fridays" is printed just below it. Now there is a clue! I've partied at Verge in the past, it's a mega-club in Camden, multiple floors, big scene. There are better places for really excellent cutting-edge music, but for a huge, screaming night out that you won't remember all of, Verge is quite it. It's also notorious as something of a flea-market for recreational drugs. You can get anything you want there.

Evan McCutcheon doesn't sound familiar at all, but I wouldn't expect him to. I need to do some research. Well, tonight is Friday night, why not just take a little jaunt to Camden, and check out Verge's third floor? I haven't been clubbing in ages, it might even be fun. I carefully tuck the scrap of paper away in my handbag.

Scrolling my phone back through the calls I've had in the past few weeks, I find the number for Adam, one of my recent ex's friends. He and I always flirted like mad when I was with my ex, Erik, so I guess Adam thought he was next in line. He's been phoning me, I've been ignoring him.

However, he is a party hound, hot for me, and absolutely fit. I'm certain I can talk him into going out tonight wherever I want to go, and I could certainly do worse for a date. Even better, Adam runs with a crowd that hangs out at the clubs in Camden, so he's bound to know people at Verge I can talk to about this Mr. McCutcheon.

A short phone call later, and we are on. I tell Adam to pick me up here at Sara's; I certainly am not going to give him the address of the Knightsbridge flat. I text Sara to advise her that I'm going to be around later tonight, and maybe stay over. She's used to my changeable plans, so I don't expect it will be a problem for her. I really hope Holmes doesn't call me in to work tonight, that would be a fly in the ointment for certain, although I don't reckon it's likely. He just saw me last night, and apparently has big plans for Sunday, so I would be surprised if he wanted to come round tonight or tomorrow as well. I'll keep my phone close, just in case.

I make myself a cup of tea and curl up on the ratty old sofa to look through Steen's book yet again, and think. Pablo deigns to come and sit beside me, and allows me to stroke the top of his head, although he pointedly declines to sit in my lap.

I peer at the book from all angles, and carefully leaf through the tattered pages. I really can't see any writing, or any code markings, or anything unusual about it at all, except for the quantity of pages with turned-down corners. I sigh, and pet Pablo some more, until he finally starts to purr. If this book is a clue, I'm just not clever enough to figure it out-but I can't imagine that Steen was seriously giving it to me for reading material! My Russian-English dictionary is on my ereader, and I didn't bring that along, so I guess I'll just wander back to Knightsbridge and spend the afternoon translating, then come back here by 10 o'clock for Adam to pick me up.

I pack a few more odds and ends from my closet at Sara's, say goodbye for now to Pablo, and head back to the other flat. Since I'm going out dancing tonight, I feel justified in skipping the rest of my workout for the day, and just concentrating on the bloody book.

First, the title. I call up my translation dictionary on my reader and have at it: "F-a-k-e-l." It means..."the torch." Well, shit.

I just sit there for a moment and stare at it. "The Torch." That's the name of the book. No wonder Steen thought I knew what The Torch meant in his message; he thought I already had the book, and he knows I can read Russian. This thing is a clue and a half, if only I were clever enough to understand!

I listen to Steen's message again for the umpteenth time. I'm supposed to get The Torch to the pigman? And that's the only way to stop this thing? Okay, so the implication is that something bad is going to happen if this book doesn't get into the hands of someone known as the pigman. But it's London, and unfortunately there's a shortage of blokes raising pigs around here, so I have less than no idea of who he means. Maybe I can find out tonight at Verge; maybe this Evan McCutcheon knows.

The rest of the day seems to evaporate as I translate bits of the book, and do some internet stalking of all the Evan McCutcheons in the City. Both endeavors turn up a big, fat zero. The Torch is a raunchy romance novel, really badly written, and there are fifteen Evan or E. McCutcheons around here, none of whom seem to be in trouble with the law beyond parking tickets and a couple of ASBO's. No obvious drug lords, but then, I don't think drug lords are supposed to be obvious.

I have a late tea, and a walk around the park to clear my head, then it's time to get ready to go out. It's an ordeal figuring out an outfit that will keep the Mark of Mycroft on my shoulder securely hidden, and still meet my own criteria for clubbing gear. It has to be sexy, of course, but comfortable to move in, and not look just like everybody else's outfit. It has to be a little edgy.

I spend an hour trying on every bloody thing I have with me, and the bedroom ends up looking like the mahogany wardrobe exploded or something, clothes and shoes everywhere. I settle on yet another high-neck outfit that Steen helped me pick out, a cute little dress in plaid lycra...but it's so plain...ah. I know!

I open my toy-chest, and pull out the black gym bag. Harnesses are in right now, I saw a few on the runway last spring. Why didn't I think of this before? The whole inner-wear as outer-wear taboo-busting thing, sort of like the lingerie look way back in the 90's...

Gazing in the wardrobe mirror, I decide that I look fantastic. The brown leather and brass rings just set the outfit right on the edge, and with high brown boots, my hair teased into a 60's bouffant-yeah. Too bad poor Adam isn't getting any of this tonight, but I do have a contract to honor.

I splurge on a cab to take me to Sara's, and she's home when I get there, already in her jammies and settled in for the night to watch telly. That's how it's always been, Sara the homebody and Angelica the party animal-although to be fair, I think that she and her boyfriend are going out tomorrow night for some big "do" or another.

Sara susses me out with a wry look._ "That's an...interesting outfit."_

I twirl around for her inspection._ "Don't I look great? I think this might be my new look for a while."_

_"Whatever bumps your bikkies, I suppose, but I honestly think you look a little...well, a little inappropriate. Isn't that an S and M harness or something?"_

_"Yep. And the term isn't 'inappropriate' it's 'edgy.' Like, on the edge of being inappropriate."_

Sara shakes her head and gets off the sofa. "_Living on the edge, and sliding downhill, child. Want a cuppa while you wait for your ride?"_

_"Love one."_

Over mugs of tea, Sara and I catch up on each other's life a little. It's funny how you can have a phone chat nearly every day, but there are still things to talk over when you meet. With one eye on the clock, though, I bring the talk around to the favor I mean to ask of her.

_"Tomorrow, and I mean tomorrow, because I don't know when I'll need this, but will you go to the phone shop tomorrow and get a phone for me, in your name only? I've got the cash for it right here..."_ I lay down the money on the table between us, and tell her which model and contract I want.

_"I can do that, but why do you want me to?"_ Sara looks suspiciously at me. _"What aren't you telling me?"_

I sigh. I've left out of our conversations any mention about the trouble that Steen might be in, and my growing fears for him, not to mention the fact that Holmes isn't going to want me to get involved in anything regarding Steen. I decide to keep her out of the loop a while longer.

_"I told you how Holmes can track my phone, right?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Well, last night I think he was able to have it jammed or something as well. I'm pretty sure he did, because I tried to call out and there was no signal, for quite a while. So it's worth it to me to have a backup that isn't linked to me, that he won't be able to jam or track. See?"_

Sara leans back in her chair and looks at me hard for a moment._ "Do you have any idea how nervous it makes me that you are involved with a guy that can and would do something like that? Stuff like that isn't normal, you know? People don't do things like that."_

_"The only reason they don't is because they can't, and you know it. Hell, if I could do it, I would. And by the way, I'm not 'involved' with him, I work for him."_

Sara shakes her head, but agrees that tomorrow morning she'll go get me the phone.

A few moments later, Adam knocks me up. He's a good-looking bloke whose main fault is that he tries too hard, but he's not bad company once he calms down. He says all the right things about how great I look, how much he's missed hanging out with me, and so forth, and we take off in his ancient little Miata. He gets points for having his own car, loses points for it smoking like a chimney-pot. I don't look to see if we are followed, because I just assume we will be. If Holmes had me followed in broad daylight just bopping around the City, I imagine he would certainly do so when I go out clubbing.

Verge is housed in a huge Victorian factory, converted to three separate dance floors, one on each level, each with a different DJ and ambience. It's been around for over a decade and is still quite popular, although given how fickle the London club crowd is, that could change at any minute. I appreciate that Adam thought to get tickets ahead of time so we don't have to stand outside in the queue. We go through the usual pat-down at the entrance, and then we are out on the edge of the main floor. The place is dim and huge, and the music is so loud at first it's almost painful, lights strobing in time to the bass beat that thumps through my chest. Takes a while to get used to it, and some alcohol wouldn't hurt, either. The floor isn't packed yet, since it's still before midnight, but there are plenty of people grinding around on the dance floor, or hovering at the tables beside the main bar.

I send Adam to the crowded bar to get drinks right away, because I really need some anesthetic for my ears. While I'm waiting for him, I get approached no less than four times by blokes who want to know if I'd like some party-fuel. One is sharking me, but the rest are clearly dealers, since they insist they have on hand_ "Anything you want, special prices for beautiful girls!"_ I decline politely, except for the one who doesn't seem to understand what_ "No, thanks"_ means. He gets told to shove off.

It's not like I haven't tried, and enjoyed, quite a few different trips -nicknames aside, I'm no angel. But, number one, that's not what I'm here for tonight, and number two, I've learned the hard way that recreational pharmaceuticals are really hard on my body, most of the time much worse than a little alcohol. I'll feel great for the night, but the comedowns are rarely good and the next day might be the hangover from hell. Besides, taking a good look at the people who are regular, heavy users of club drugs has made me very cautious when it comes to my own habits. I don't intend to be a sorry-arsed burnout by the time I'm thirty.

When my vodka-and-bullseye aural anesthesia arrives, I down it as quick as I can -it's not like I drink that stuff to savor it. I've asked Adam to look out for his mates, the Camden crowd, and he tells me-shouting in my ear over the music-that he's spotted a few of them over in a corner on some sofas. I ask him to take me over there and do some introductions.

The little group, a woman and three men, are huddled around a tiny table set beside one of the sofas in a dimly-lit conversation pit. They are almost openly doing lines of coke, and I really wonder about the law enforcement around here, or lack of it. It's only been a little more than a year since I was here last, and it's no longer a drug flea-market, it's a free-for-all. If the punters are this open about using, and dealers are so open about sales that they are clearly in competition with each other, then there must currently be zero enforcement in this place. The security people are certainly in on selling the stuff, and possibly the management.

It's not like I really care, but the most disturbing thing is that it also might mean that somebody in law enforcement is in on it as well.

Adam and I settle on the sofa beside the little group, and there are introductions all around. One of the men, an older bloke named Harry, generously cuts some coke for Adam and I, but I decline mine, claiming that it gives me horrible headaches. Adam happily snorts up both lines, thus conclusively proving that I have been wise to avoid him.

I don't waste too much time in chatting up this lot; they are already too out of it to notice whether or not I am observing any social niceties. I pretty much cut right to it, and ask if anyone knows an Evan McCutcheon who is likely to be found on the third floor here on Fridays.

Harry gives me a big smile._ "Ooooh, no wonder you weren't into the powder, you like to play with the other stuff! I bet you're a lot of fun when the party gets going, eh?"_ He elbows Adam in the ribs, and they leer at each other. Ick. But I play along, and let Harry think what he likes, so long as he'll answer my questions.

It turns out that McCutcheon isn't exactly a drug lord, but he's probably close, personal friends with a few of them. He's a distributor, a dealer to the dealers for the most part, although he'll deal directly with high-end customers who are looking for something out-of-the-ordinary.

_"Some of the shit he sells is so new, it's not even illegal yet!_" enthuses Harry._ "His prices are sky-high, too, although a tidy bird like you could probably arrange a discount,"_ and here comes the creepy leer again; I am really getting tired of this wanker. I get a few more bits out of Harry, like where McCutcheon usually lurks upstairs and how to recognize him, and then I've had enough. I grab Adam's hand and pull him up beside me.

_"C'mon, I want to dance."_

Grinning like an idiot over his shoulder, Adam makes a show of sliding his hands around me and grabbing onto my arse as we walk away from his mates. Show-off. Even if I weren't under a contract, I wouldn't be tempted to have it off with him. I really hate being treated like a bloody trophy.

He's a good dancer, though, and I genuinely enjoy grinding away with him on the dance floor. The place is starting to get crowded, and noisier. I want to wait until it really gets cranking before I go to see McCutcheon, less chance of being noticed. I wonder if Holmes's men are here, watching me? I've been scanning the crowd, but haven't spotted them yet.

Finally the noise and activity level rises to the point where I think it's safe to go check out McCutcheon. I drag Adam up to the third floor, where the lights are a different colour, and flashing to a different beat, and there is a smoke machine making everything look spooky; otherwise, it's pretty much the same scene we just left. I glance over at a conversation pit in a quieter corner, lit by blue can-lights, and there is McCutcheon holding court just as described.

He doesn't look like an underworld kingpin. He looks like a thirty-something ex-skinhead run to fat, really. Short, dumpy, clean-shaven head and face, dressed in a plain black t-shirt and black jeans with thick-soled doc martins on his feet-they make you a little taller-he sits alone on a sofa with his hands folded on his ample belly, surrounded by a couple of club security staff that probably are also his personal security. A well-dressed punter is sitting on an ottoman placed directly in front of McCutcheon, and the two are quietly talking.

Adam and I dance for a while, and I watch McCutcheon's supplicants come and go. If money and parcels are changing hands, they are so sly about it that you don't see it happen. On the other hand, McCutcheon might just be brokering deals between other parties, and not directly involved himself.

In any case, it's time to get to this. I'm pretty nervous about approaching McCutcheon; I'm nervous about the whole thing, really. I know I'm out of my depth here, but I want to know what's going on with Steen, and if I can help him somehow, I will. I send Adam to the overflowing bar area for more drinks, knowing that will give me at least twenty minutes, and I stroll over to the blue-lit sofa to say hi.

McCutcheon watches impassively with his flat, pale eyes as his security man intercepts me.

_"What is your business over here, miss?"_ The acoustics of this corner are well-chosen; I don't have to strain to hear him.

_"I'm here to speak with Mr. McCutcheon. I'm sorry, did I need an appointment?"_ I give my best charming smile to the man on the sofa, ignoring the security goon.

McCutcheon nods, and the security steps away from me. I walk over to the sofa and point to a spot on the cushion beside him._ "Mind if I sit down?"_

McCutcheon looks up at me, unblinking, and shrugs, so I fold up my legs and sit down, close but not quite touching him. I give him a small smile, and let him see that I'm nervous by tucking my hair behind my ears and licking my lips. I don't think there's any percentage in playing it cool here; in fact, letting him know he has the upper hand might be helpful. He'll feel more secure.

He's still staring at me._ "Mr. McCutcheon, my name is Angel."_ Start off with the basics, proceed from there._ "I heard about you from, well, lots of people, but also my friend Steen Dijkstra."_ McCutcheon's eyes flicker at the name, so he knows of Steen, at least. _"I'm an escort, I work for the Agency."_ Now, in the right circles, that would be name-dropping. Let's see if Evan McCutcheon moves in those circles.

He raises an eyebrow._ "Do you, then? Well, that's interesting."_ He doesn't look interested. Everything about the man is flat, damped down, monochrome and cold. His voice is very soft, and his accent very odd; he sounds like an Yank faking a Scottish accent, or a Scots who lived too long in America._ "So you're an Agency girl. What's your manager's name?"_

I guess he does move in those circles._ "You know I can't tell you."_

_"And why is that?"_ He's asking for the password.

_"They don't ever tell us, Mr. McCutcheon,"_ I reply, and he visibly relaxes, finally blinking those disturbing pale blue eyes.

He turns his face toward me more fully, and his voice warms up by a fraction of a degree. _"You can call me Evan, if you like. Now, what can I do for you, pretty Angel?"_ Yep, drug dealers and whores, they go together like bread and butter. Suddenly I'm a colleague.

I draw him into talking with me by outlining a fake business plan to make extra money by selling to my clientele. He listens to my long-winded recitation, nodding slightly, and tells me that I might do quite well with that, quite well indeed. He quickly starts to get down to brass tacks about costs and deliveries, but I don't want him to think that we are coming to an agreement tonight, so I backpedal furiously.

_"I'm sorry, but I'm not ready to commit to this...I was just wondering if you thought it was a good idea or not..."_

He looks slightly disappointed._ "Well, if you're not ready, then I guess that's that for tonight. But, when you are,"_ he looks around at the strobing lights and forms writhing in the glowing blue smoke and smiles benignly, _"I'll be right here. On Fridays, anyway."_ He lifts one side of his bum, so he can reach into one of his pockets and pull out a little vial. Opening it, he shakes out a capsule and hands it to me._ "Here, Angel, this one's on the house, a show of good faith. Bottoms up."_

He smiles at me, but the cold eyes in his pudgy face stay hard. He's not showing his good faith, he's wanting me to prove mine. I take the capsule in my palm and look at it. _"Does it have a name?"_ I ask.

_"Mandy,"_ he says, still smiling with his mouth. _"Best shit you'll ever roll on. Absolutely fucking pure."_

I smile brightly, but inwardly sigh. I've used MDMA before, and it's not my favorite. On the other hand, there are plenty of trips that are worse than rolling on ecstasy, and I want McCutcheon to trust me.

I bring my palm to my mouth, like I'm going to take the capsule, then stop._ "Hey, do you happen to know who the pigman is, Evan? Steen has mentioned him, and I'm really curious. Who keeps pigs in London? Who is the pigman?"_

McCutcheon's eyes flicker, but he keeps his smile steady and shrugs._ "No idea, my dear."_ He's lying.

I put the cap on my tongue and show it to him before swallowing it._ "Yummy to my tummy, dear Evan."_ I give him a big smile and lean in._ "Are you really sure you don't know who this pigman is? Steen is being Mr. Mysterious about it, and I'm dying of curiosity. You've just GOT to tell me, in good faith?"_ His turn, now.

McCutcheon leans toward me, and puts his mouth right against my ear; it takes an effort of will to not pull away from him in disgust. He whispers, in Russian _"On yavlyayetsya pakhan,"_ then slouches back against the cushions, a sly smile on his face.

I remember to look confused and say, _"What? What did you say?"_ and McCutcheon just grins wider and waves bye-bye to me. I make like I'm getting a giggle-fit, and wave bye-bye back, blow the fat bastard a kiss, then find my feet and go to locate Adam.

If I hadn't just spent the day translating Russian, I wouldn't have known that McCutcheon essentially told me that the Pigman is a leader in the Russian mafia, a _pakhan_.

I stow that information away securely in my head, because I know from experience that I've got about thirty minutes of reasonable sobriety before I start to roll, then I'm going to be completely useless for the rest of the night. I also am one of those unfortunates that get near-total amnesia from high doses of MDMA, so I need to get myself back to Sara's before it kicks in and I find myself waking up in the morning wondering where I am and what happened, again. Where the hell is Adam?!

As I push through the crowd, I can feel my whole body start to tingle slightly, and the music pulling me in... I'm still looking for Adam, but the beat feels so good, the dancing peoples are having so much fun, I can feel the smile spreading across my face as I jump in time to the music, merging into the press of bodies around me, smells of sweat and perfume and spilled alcohol mingling...

A man takes my wrist and tries to pull me off the dance floor. I look at him closely and shout,_ "Arm-hauler! There you are! I was looking for you guys earlier, what took you so long? Do you want to dance?"_ I grab onto him and pull him back into the mosh, wrapping my arms around his neck. The bloke frantically tries to unwrap me, but I am all over him. He finally flips me around into a rear armlock, my right hand pulled up hard behind me, and I gleefully start grinding my arse against the front of his jeans. Ooooh, he feels nice! He pushes me out in front of him, holding onto one of the straps of my harness to keep me from twisting around again, and the other agent gives him a hand when we reach the edge of the dance floor. They start to march me out between them.

_"Hey, hey, hey, lovey, no need to get rough!"_ I tell them._ "I'm happy to go with you. Will you take me to Sara's? I need to crash there for a while. She'll look after me."_

Arm-hauler shakes his head as they navigate me down the stairs toward an exit. _"No, you've been sent for."_

_"Ah, I've been *sent for*!"_ I repeat in a portentious voice. Did Holmes decide to visit tonight after all? I don't think my phone has rung; I have it tucked into the top of one boot, and I think I would've felt the vibration if he had called or texted me. I'll have to check.

The outdoors air clears my head a little, and I convince Holmes's men that they don't have to march me around. Following them to the parking garage, I pull out my phone from my boot and see that an unidentified caller did indeed ring just over an hour ago. Well, we agreed on two-hour notice, so there you are, I have no reason to even be annoyed.

I look at the pretty city lights as we drive along, and I idly wonder how long it will take Adam to give up looking for me. He's going to be pissed that I ditched him, but I really don't care. He's an annoying little wanker. I'm really thirsty, I wish he had gotten back with my drink sooner.

The car pulls up at the blue door on Ennismore Mews, and I carefully get out. I'm not sober by any stretch, but can still negotiate simple tasks if I concentrate. I'm aware that the men in the car are watching me closely as I pull out the key and fit it into the lock; I'm very proud that I got it in on the first go, but then I can't remember which way it turns, and I have to try a few times before I can get it to work.

I sigh with relief when I close the door behind me. It's not as good as being at Sara's, but it's close enough. Then I notice the tall man in shirtsleeves leaning against the bannister, his arms crossed and a frown on his face. For a minute, I am sixteen again, and it's my daddy standing there with a mixture of anger, disappointment and relief on his face. I start to stammer, I'm sorry Daddy...then I realize that it's Holmes, and the last thing I should do is call him Daddy. Very, very bad idea, that.

_"Ummmm...Hi,"_ I say. I don't know what else to say, so I just look at him. His forehead wrinkles up with consternation.

_"Angel, WHAT are you doing?"_

_"I, ah, I went out. To a club. With a friend."_ God, it really does feel like being a naughty teenager again.

_"Weren't you going to stay in for a few days? Except to visit your sister?"_

_"I never promised that. It was just an intention. Things changed...I had to see someone, at the club, talk to him, it was important..."_ I trail off, not wanting to tell Holmes what I was after._ "Anyway, here I am, like we agreed. Your men came and got me."_

_"Yes."_ He steps forward with a sigh, and thumbs up one of my eyelids, peering at my eye. _"What did you take?"_

_"Some mandy. Pure MDMA."_

He chuffs in disgust and annoyance, and shakes his head. "_Why?"_

I'm not going to tell him about proving myself to Evan McCutcheon, no way. So I shrug. _"Because. Reasons, I guess. Why do you drink?"_ The mandy is making me reckless; I can feel myself starting to roll in earnest.

He lifts his chin and his face goes stone cold._ "You have no right to question that,"_ he says flatly.

_"Same here,"_ I point out. We glare at each other, an eye-to-eye standoff, until something suddenly shifts in me, and tears spring to my eyes. MDMA does that, it makes you all soft and lovey.

_"It's not you, you know,"_ I tell him earnestly.

_"What?"_

_"It's not you, not because of you. No matter how good you are, people are still going to screw up. It's not your fault. You can't catch all the balls, some of them are going to hit the ground. No matter how good you are, it's going to happen sometimes."_

_"You are high,"_ he says accusingly.

_"Not quite yet, but I'm getting there. Just remember, nobody is or can be perfect, not even you."_

_"No-one is an angel?"_ he asks archly.

_"Oh, there are angels, all right, but they aren't sweet and fluffy. They aren't nice. Angels are God's hit-men."_ I give him a crooked smile._ "We're each other's angel, you see."_ I can tell he doesn't see, but that's okay. I can see for us both.

I go past him to start up the stairs. _"You should come up,"_ I tell him. I have to take the steps carefully, my balance is going.

"_Why? You're high, and you smell like...people,"_ he makes a face.

I lean over the bannister. _"I can shower. You should come up, because I'm tremendously randy at the moment, although it's a horrible shame that I won't remember anything in the morning at all. That's the trouble with me and methylenedioxy-n-methylamphetimine..."_ I giggle, because I can still say the name, even though I can't hardly remember my own right now.

_"You're one of the ones who get the amnesiac effect? You won't remember what happens tonight at all?"_ He looks up at me speculatively.

_"Nope. Not a thing. It sucks, that's why I never use it."_

_"Why did you, tonight?"_

I bite my lip and shake my head. _"For reasons. You should come up."_ I continue up the stairs, stripping off my clothing as I go. By the time I reach the bathroom, I am naked. I remember to close the door, to keep out the draught, but when it comes to showering I find myself staring at a handful of shampoo and not being sure what I should do with it. The last thing I remember is hearing the bathroom door open...


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven: "Paradise is attained by touch." ~ Helen Keller**

...and then I open my eyes, and it's painfully bright. I fling a hand over my face with a moan and roll away, pulling the pillow over my head to block it out. Where did the shower and shampoo go? I'm in a bed, a comfortable one. I peer out from under the pillow, blinking. I'm alone in a comfortable bed. Right.

As my eyes adjust to being open, I realize that it's not all that bright. Somebody has left the blinds open, though, and the green light filtering through the trees outside leaves no doubt that it's well past sunrise.

I take a deep breath that turns into a full-body yawn that goes on and on. I'm sore, my muscles are sore and feel a little weak, like they've been worked hard at the gym...I reach up and rub my upper arms and shoulders. Ouch. Legs, too, are sore, and some other places...

I flop my arms back down and take stock, casting my mind around like you do when you are trying to remember a dream, only I'm trying to remember what happened before the dream.

Music. Strobing lights. Dancing. I went to a club. The pigman is a _pakhan_, Steen is mixed up somehow with the Russian mafia! I make like I'm going to sit up quickly, but my muscles aren't listening. Oof! It's the mandy; most people have some muscle fatigue and weakness after they roll, freaks like me also get to enjoy memory impairment and sensory disturbances as well. They call it the afterglow, but I don't feel too glowing. My mouth is so parched, it feels like the bottom of a birdcage-all dry gravel and bird-poo.

I flop out of bed, hanging onto the bedpost for stability, and wait for the room to stop moving. I don't feel nauseated, thank whatever god that watches over fools with drugs, but I very certainly have a touch of vertigo. When I can stand, I stagger into the loo and turn on the tap. I'm so dry I don't even have to wee yet, so at least some of my problem is due to being dehydrated.

I cup cold water into my hands and drink until my stomach tells me to stop, then I brush my teeth. Looking in the mirror above the sink, I'm amazed to see that the face looking back at me is not some death-ravaged zombie; I look just fine. Not even tired, just a bit puffy around the eyes. I'm glad Mycroft washed off my makeup for me, I hate waking up in the morning with eyeliner and mascara smears all over the place.

Wait a minute. I turn and look at the huge claw-foot tub, with the curtain still drawn around it from when I showered last night...because Mycroft complained that I smelled like people...but washing became complicated, so he had to help. Good thing it's a big tub.

I shake my head and rub the back of my neck. Memory is such a tricky thing, so easily disturbed and warped. The first time I rolled on ecstasy, before I knew that it was a blackout drug for me, I had a persistent memory afterwards of shagging a deer, a big-antlered buck. I just knew that this had happened, I knew it. I was freaked out, but my friends all told me it was just a hallucination and laughed it off, until I told it to one of the boys who had been with me that night. He pointed out that I had spent most of the night having it off on a billiards table in a games room-with stuffed deer head trophies on every wall! So much for memory.

Looking at the tub, I know that Mycroft got in there with me, and washed us both; I remember viscerally how his soap-slick body felt against mine...but I really doubt that we had sex in there how I think I remember, because he couldn't have used a condom and that's just not something Mr. Paranoia would do. Is it?

I hate this. This is why I don't do mandy anymore, why I swore to myself that I wouldn't do it anymore. You can start to go a little mad, second-guessing yourself as you try to piece things together from clues and dream-like fragments. The key is to apply rational thinking, and dismiss the impossible.

Like, I doubt that I actually gave Mycroft's umbrella a blow-job; it just doesn't seem physically possible. I feel like I have a real memory of it...but it has to be either a hallucination, or a deer-shagging sort of scenario...even though it did make the umbrella so very happy...

My kidneys have started to work again, so I take care of that, then I realize that I'm hungry, ravenously hungry. What the hell time is it, anyway? There was something I was going to be doing today, I hope I didn't miss it. I throw on my dressing gown and go down to the kitchen in search of sustenance.

Waiting for the kettle to boil, I wander around the quiet flat munching on an untoasted, cold bagel. My eye falls on the Russian romance novel and my e-reader, stacked on the side-table where I left them last night. Bloody hell, Steen. The bratva, the Russian mafia. What the hell were you thinking? And I've somehow got to get that stupid book to the local pakhan...it's not like I can just google the keyword string "pigman russian mafia boss" and find him that way...although I might could actually try that, who knows...but first, I need to check the calendar on my phone. There is something still niggling at the back of my brain telling me that I have an appointment today.

The kettle boils, and I scurry to make my tea. Oh, I desperately need my tea this morning. Then, mug in hand, I search around for my phone. I had tucked it into the top of my boot before I left here last night, since I don't like to carry a bag when I'm out clubbing and my dress didn't have pockets. My boots had to have been taken off somewhere between the front door and the bathroom, so I go upstairs to look.

I have a few moments of panic when I can't find the phone anywhere. It's not rational, everything on it is totally replaceable except for a few photos that I would miss, but damn it, it's my phone, and I can't find it.

And then I hear it ringing, faintly, and have to wonder if I'm really losing my mind. Is that an auditory hallucination, brought on by my panic at losing my phone, or is that my actual phone's actual ringtone? It sounds like it's coming from downstairs.

I hurry down so I can listen for it before it stops ringing, and the sound gets louder. I'm quite relieved that it's not a hallucination after all. I follow the sound to my handbag, occupying it's usual counter-space, and pull my phone out to see that Unidentified is ringing me. I answer it, of course.

_"Hey,"_ I say, and take a quick gulp of tea.

_"Angel. How are you feeling this morning?"_ Mycroft sounds concerned, but not at all solicitous. He might as well be asking how the cooker is getting on.

_"Quite well, actually. A little rough at the start, but getting better."_

_"Are you taking fluids?"_

I take another sip of tea. _"Yes, and that's probably where the getting better comes from."_

_"Any vertigo or blurred vision? Headache?"_

_"No, no, and no, Dr. Holmes."_ Now he's being silly._ "Am I fit for duty?"_

_"I believe so, at the moment anyway. You may expect to see me tomorrow at twelve o'clock. And, Angel?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"If you should start to feel ill, don't go to the local clinic. You are to call 999, I have emergency services keyed to take you to a more suitable place."_

Oh, god, he's gone beyond silly. _"That's waayyyy overkill, Mycroft. I'm fine, really. Serious side effects are very rare, and I would already be ill if I were to have any at all."_

_"Yes, of course,"_ he says, as in, Yes, you are wrong, but I'm not going to waste breath arguing with you. _"Well, tomorrow, then."_ After he hangs up, I finish the rest of my tea and put the kettle on again. This is definitely a two-cuppa morning. Although, I don't feel as rotten as I would've expected from that big of a hit; the physical issues are rapidly fading, and there's no emotional letdown at all. McCutcheon was telling the truth, that was some pure shit.

In fact, I feel super, except for stressing about the missing chunks of memory. I should just let that go...there's no way I'm going to know just exactly what happened here last night, and I should just trust how I feel about it. And how I feel is...warm. And relaxed. Okay, so if bad things had happened, I wouldn't feel all warm and fuzzy, would I? My subconscious would be making me feel all icky about it...

I take my tea over to the chair where I have my laptop set up, and check in online. Nothing exciting in my email inbox, just a lot of spam. I check in on the forum, and everybody seems to be doing fine; in fact, the level of terror is fading fast as my fellow escorts begin forgetting that a few weeks ago we all thought our lives were in danger. Now that there haven't been any more murders, everyone is back to fussing about the latest antibiotic-resistant STD, and whether or not the Agency's rate schedule needs to be updated.

I post a query asking if anybody has heard from Steen lately, and flag it so that it will pop to the top of all the message queues. That's all I can do at the moment. It's too soon to file a missing person's on him, the police won't even want to hear about it until tomorrow night, and probably won't action on it until early in the week. He's just a rent-boy, we're of the expendable class, don'cha know...

I sigh, and try googling for information about the _bratva_ in London, especially its leaders. Looking at the photos of known Russian mob members, it occurs to me that every single one of them has a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

And suddenly I'm dying for a smoke, such is the power of suggestion. I'll have to go outside to do it, so I run upstairs to throw on some clothes fast-except that I can't find anything! The bloody wardrobe has been completely re-organized! I always hang up my clothing by outfits, each with it's own section.

Now it's all arranged by colour, in rainbow order, and I can't find a bloody thing. It has to be Mycroft, and this is simply too much. I won't have him getting into my stuff and re-arranging things to suit himself. No way, no how. If I had a number for him, I would call him right now and tear him a new arsehole, but I can't even send him a bitchy text-I have no way to contact him at all. It's all one way, isn't it? His way...

Now I really want a smoke, so I haul out whatever, some shorts and a t-shirt, and throw them on. I'm not even going to do my hair or put on a bra. If people want to think I'm a grotty slag, I don't care, I really don't.

As I'm kneeling down rummaging around for some shoes, I have a sudden vision, though, of the room as I left it last night, before going out. It looked like the wardrobe had exploded, shoes and clothes all over the place... I know that I was in no shape to tidy things up when I came back, I barely made it into the shower before I was so blissed-out that I couldn't function. Housekeeper doesn't come until Monday, so it must have been Mycroft that tidied it up for me.

I rock back on my heels for a moment. Well, that's quite different. He did the best he could, I suppose. I can put things back how I like them later; for now I'll just be glad he took care of it. That was thoughtful of him.

Or was it? Because that would be quite unlike...I realize that Mycroft probably didn't tidy up because he was being thoughtful; the mess would've been uncomfortable for him to look at. Yep. That fits. I have to be careful of projecting my own motivations onto him; it's a little bit like relating to a Martian. It might walk like a duck and quack like a duck, but never forget that it's a Holmes.

The sunshine is warm on my bare arms and legs when I step outside. I don't even get to the end of the cobblestone street, puffing on my cigarette, before I become aware that I'm being followed again. Well, watched from a distance, at any rate. They aren't even bothering to be sly about it anymore, the two men just follow at a respectful distance behind me, not obvious and not crowding, but definitely there. I stop, look at them to see if I know either one-which I don't-and give them a smile before continuing on my way. It's going to be a hell of a challenge to shake this security detail, if I ever have to. I really hope I never have to. I still wonder why I have to be escorted everywhere; would Mycroft tell me if I asked him point-blank? Probably not.

I sit on a low stacked-stone garden wall at the end of the street to finish the cigarette. It's another beautiful day, I wonder what I might do with it? Oh, yeah, I should check my calendar...phone's in my pocket, and I call up the calendar...

Sara. I'm supposed to visit with Sara today! And I am supposed to be there...half an hour ago. Oh, bloody hell. I call her, and I don't know if I should be relieved or insulted when she says that she figured I would be late, so it's no problem, just get there when I can.

Sighing, I hang up and stub out my cig on the wall, carrying the butt back with me to the flat. Just once, I would like to not feel like the cack-handed little sister who can't do anything right. I'll just get dressed and over there as quick as I can.

###

Sara's in the middle of making tea when I finally get there, and puts me to work peeling potatoes. _"So, how was your outing with Adam last night?"_ is the first thing out of her mouth past 'Hello'. I'd made it clear to her that it was only a date in his mind, not mine. _"Did you have fun at the club?"_

Her good cheer seems a little forced; maybe she's more annoyed than she let on that I'm so late. I give her the condensed and sanitized version of last night, leaving out the encounter with McCutcheon and the MDMA, and ending with,_ "But then Mycroft decided that he wanted me to work last night, so I had to cut things short-"_

_"Who's Mycroft?"_ Sara stops in mid-chop at the cutting board. _"I thought you were on a contract right now."_

_"I am. With Mycroft Holmes, same guy, nothing changed."_

_"Oh."_ She starts chopping the veg again._ "Since when have you been on a first-name basis with him?"_

_"Well, I guess since last night. I guess. That's really weird."_ I have one of those moments of cognitive dissonance, where what you think you know is suddenly turned upside-down. Why do I think of him as Mycroft now? I think I've been calling him that all day, but I can't be sure.

Sara is looking at me suspiciously. _"What's really weird?"_

I don't want to tell her why I don't remember. _"His name. It's weird, isn't it?"_

She shrugs._ "Probably one of those surname-as-given-name things."_ She looks at me out of the corner of her eye as she tosses the veg with some olive oil._ "So things are going well, then? Sounds pretty cozy."_

I huff at her. _"Not exactly cozy. We've worked out a reasonable business relationship,"_ or...something, I add silently. I don't exactly know what.

Pablo strolls into the kitchen then, and I divert the conversation by fawning over him. Sara chucks the mixed veg, potatoes and a roasting chicken into the oven, and says, _"There we are. Now, you and I need to talk."_

_"What about?"_ Pablo is not ignoring me for a change; he is actually all over me, purring.

_"A couple of things,"_ she replies. _"I'll put the kettle back on."_

Uh-oh. With Sara, _"We need to talk,"_ combined with "I'll put the kettle on" means bad news. Sometimes really bad. I sit very still and pet Pablo, who is now curled up in my lap and rumbling loudly, rubbing his whiskers against my hand.

It doesn't take long for the tea to get made, and Sara settles in across from me. I wait for it, whatever it is.

_"So,"_ she starts, then,_ "Oh, hey, do you want some biscuits? I've got some really nice ones that I picked up yesterday, I think you'll like them."_ She jumps up and rummages in the cupboard, comes back to the table opening a packet, and starts to sit down. _"They remind me of the ones we used to get up North at Auntie's, the ones nobody around here seems to carry, they're not the exact brand, but I think you might like them all the same..."_ She jumps up again to go get a plate, like we don't usually just eat out of the packet anyway.

I can't take it anymore._"For god's sake Sara, will you just sit down and spit it out, whatever it is? Please?"_

She purses her lips as she sits again and neatly arranges the biscuits on the plate. _"Okay, then, well, Richard is moving in next week."_ Sara pushes the plate toward me, and gives me a you-asked-for-it kind of look with most of her face, although her blue eyes are swimming with tears. Talk about mixed signals.

_"Why are you upset, Sairs? That's good news, isn't it, that he's moving in? You said that things were getting serious; you still like him, don't you?"_ I've only met Richard a handful of times, but he seems okay; works part-time at the animal hospital, going to school to be a veterinary surgeon, I think. Stiff and proper, very solid sort. Boring, really, but I don't criticize Sara's tastes and she doesn't criticize mine.

Sara dashes the overflow from her eyes and shrugs. _"I just feel like I'm choosing him over you, and that makes me feel awful, you know? I'm supposed to look after you..."_

That gets another huff from me. _"I'm twenty-three, I can look after myself. But, in what way are you choosing him over me? I don't get it._" I take a biscuit from the plate to try it; they are actually pretty good.

Sara shakes her head. _"Angelica, you're going to have to move out next week...there's not enough space...you'll have to find storage for your things, or take them to Knightsbridge..."_

What the hell? _"What do you mean, not enough space? This place is huge, Sara! And my room is tiny, it's the size of a broom cupboard, it can't matter if my stuff stays in there. Why do I have to move out right away? I mean, eventually, yeah, but next week?"_

Sara takes a lot of time putting the milk and sugar into her tea, and purses her lips again._ "Geli, you have to move. You just do. Richard needs your bedroom for an office, so he can study. His courses are killer this term, he has to have his own space to concentrate..."_

I point to the corner of the living room where Sara put up a shoji screen last year to make an office cubby; the desk sits under a pile of dusty papers and various kinds of rubble, the swivel chair draped with clothes needing mending. _"What about that? All you have to do is muck it out, and there's your Richard's office. I think the filing cabinet is even empty."_

She doesn't look up from her mug, but just repeats stubbornly, _"You have to move out, by Wednesday. I'm sorry, I really am, but that's how it is."_

I hurl a single word into the silence between us. _"Why?"_ It just hangs there, as my sister stares into her tea mug.

I know why, I know why, I just want her to say it, but she won't. Bloody coward, her, she's always been such a big chicken.

She won't look up, so I start in for her. _"Richard doesn't want your whoring little sister living under the same roof with him, does he? He's afraid it's going to rub off..."_

She snaps her head up, glaring._ "No, it's not like that at all. He thinks you take advantage of me. He thinks you take advantage, and that I need to cut the umbilical, for both our sakes."_ Looking down, she takes up the spoon and stirs her tea some more, and the tinking sound it makes is the only noise in the room aside from the deep rumble of Pablo's purring.

I put my mind around what she's just said. Richard wouldn't be convinced that I take advantage of Sara unless she slanted things that way to him; after all, he's hardly ever seen us together, all he knows is what she tells him. So she feels I take advantage of her. She's ready to sever some ties.

I feel tears spring to my eyes, and I try to swallow the rising lump in my throat. Okay, I'm not going to sit here and cry like a baby because my big sister doesn't want me around. That's just incredibly lame. Sara looks into my face, finally, and sees that I'm ready to cry. She loses her nerve.

_"No, never mind! Listen, he does have to move someplace next week, but it doesn't have to be here, I'll tell him he has to make other arrangements. It's probably too soon for us to be moving in together anyway..."_

Argh! The only thing worse than rejection is pity. I hate pity, even though it can be useful at times. I refuse to leave things in this sorry state of affairs; we are just going to sit here and talk about the situation until we've both gotten somewhere with it.

Tea is out of the oven and we're nearly done eating before that's accomplished, but by the end of the meal I've gotten Sara to admit that she's the one who thinks we need less entanglement, and that Richard does indeed disapprove of me highly-I knew it!-and she's gotten me to admit that I have sometimes taken advantage of her feeling responsible for me. I agree to move out of the bedroom and pack up the few things still in there, but I can leave the cartons here at the flat until I'm done with my contract and settled someplace else.

_"What about Pablo?"_ I ask. "_Can he stay here until I get settled? Mycroft is allergic to cats, I think."_

_"Yes! Richard loves cats, he has one himself, a cute little Siamese. Pablo can stay here as long as you need him to. And you should keep your key, just in case, but maybe call before you drop in? Just, you know..."_ she shrugs, and I do know.

_"Oh, and speaking of calling,"_ Sara goes over to the rubble-filled desk in the corner, retrieves a miniature shopping bag, and hands it to me. _"Your spare phone. It's already activated and everything. There was enough cash to pre-pay it until January, so you're good to go."_

_"Thanks."_ I hope I don't have to use it, but it feels nice to have it.

The shadows are lengthening into evening by the time I'm ready to leave Sara's flat, and we are both pretty shattered from all the emotional drama, but at least we aren't left with things hanging still unsaid. We both know life is too precarious for that.

Back at the Knightsbridge flat-home, I guess it is, now-back home I settle in bed with my laptop and a nightcap of Mycroft's expensive brandy, and stream some mindless television for a few hours before falling asleep.

Sunday morning is quick and busy, since I rise rather late and I have to be ready for work by noon. I go for a run in the sunny, noisy park, re-do the wardrobe so I can find my clothes again, change the bed-sheets, and tidy up the flat in general and myself in particular. I feel like wearing white today, so white it is: white lacy underthings, a lacy little white dress with a handy front zipper, a white ribbon in my hair.

All that is finished with time to spare, so I curl up on the bed with green-gold filtering through the blinds, and read some Pushkin. All that Russian translation the other day has gotten me back into reading him again; what a brilliant poet! _Ya vas lyubil; lyubov eshchyo, bit mozhet..._

I switch to reading silently when I hear the front door at-yes, of course-precisely twelve o'clock. The musical selection today is... a quartet of soft woodwinds, viola and cello, and not a single wailing violin. Nice.

I don't know how he gets up the stairs so silently, but I look up eventually to see him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking at the room and me in it with a contented expression. I give him a little smile of greeting, set my e-reader aside, and go to stand at the foot of the bed.

No viewing today, he comes to me immediately and takes a wrist in each hand, crossing them behind my back as he presses me to him, leaning his nose against my hair, inhaling and sighing deeply. Holding both wrists in one hand-he really doesn't need to, but never mind-he runs the other hand over my body, caressing slowly, then trails his fingertips up my thigh and under the short hem of my dress to fondle my bare hip and bum, sliding his fingers under the thin lace straps of my knickers, nestling his face into the side of my neck. Then he grabs my bum and hauls my hips in against him almost roughly, suckling my earlobe in his mouth. Yow! Then, just as suddenly, he's released me, and goes over to the valet to leisurely and methodically hang his suit coat, waistcoat and tie.

Once down to rolled-up shirtsleeves, he takes up my wrists again behind me, and the other hand is this time unzipping the dress as he runs his mouth slowly up and down my neck and shoulder, lingering in the sensitive areas around my ear. That exploring hand finds my breasts, and teases each nipple through the silken lace until they are taut.

I'm getting hotter and hotter, and it dawns on me that today he is seems focused on arousing me, not himself. He is, very obviously, aroused as well but every touch on my body at this moment is tightly aimed at what will make me shiver and twitch. And who am I to complain?

His free hand reaches around to my bum again, drawing me in once more against him, and he leans his forehead against mine. We are eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose, and then, unexpectedly, his lips seek out and touch mine. The contact makes me jump slightly, and gasp. He smiles just a little, then brushes forward again and again, his lips just teasing mine with the barest touch.

My knees start to wobble slightly, and I sternly tell myself that I will NOT swoon. Shit like that only happens in bad romance novels, not real life...but the impact of being kissed by someone who never kissses...my nervous system almost overloads. If I were a computer, my circuits would be frying. As it is, I am shivering, almost uncontrollably trembling, and getting more reactive with every touch.

He draws his head back a little, without releasing me, and looks very pleased with himself. _"I love music,_" he muses quietly,_ "but I have no talent for it. I've always wondered what it would be like, to make an instrument sing, make it respond to my touch in perfect pitch."_ His smug smile becomes a little wicked as he zeros in on my lips, and taunts me with more light kisses. One hand still tensely clasps my wrists, but the other is roaming all over my body, lingering in all the sensitive places, while his lips more and more firmly seek mine, finally parting just the smallest bit to allow a flicker of tongue to touch my lower lip.

He pauses, his cheek pressed against mine, his fingertips anchored in the cleft of my arse and pulling me in toward him, hard. He is trembling too, his breath short and ragged. Who is playing whom, then?

Releasing my wrists, he pushes my opened dress down off my shoulders to the floor, unhooks my bra in front and lets it follow. His eyes and fingertips linger for a moment on the now mostly green-and-yellow blotch that remains on my shoulder. _"It's healing quickly. The resilience of youth,"_ he looks a little wistful as he murmurs that.

_"Helps to compensate for the foolishness of youth,"_ I point out. I wonder if he was a foolish youth? Probably, in his own way, but I doubt that I'll ever hear about it.

He turns away to retrieve the harness from the black bag in its usual spot on the floor, and as he lays the cool leather and metal against my flushed skin, his eyes flick up to mine. Softly, but with emphasis, he says, _"By the way, this is not a fashion accessory, Angel."_

I can't help it, my lips curve up in a mischievous smile. I bet I shocked him last night by wearing it to the club. _"Have you looked at the Paris runways this year?"_

_"We are neither in Paris nor on a runway."_ He tightens the buckles just so, and gives me a stern look from under lowered brows.

_"I shocked you, didn't I?"_

_"It was...a bit much at the end of a long day,"_ he admits, pulling out the wrist cuffs and carefully fastening them on me.

_"You handled it well, then. At least, I think so..."_ I don't remember him being angry at all. I wrinkle my brow, and sigh at all the things I won't remember. I decide to go ahead and ask what I'm dying to know. _"Mycroft?"_

_"Yes?"_ he's behind me, clipping my fettered wrists to small rings at the back of the harness. I crane my head around to look at him.

_"Why am I suddenly calling you Mycroft?"_ He looks up with a half-smile, and steps around in front of me again, both hands now stroking my breasts.

_"Because I told you to."_

_"Why?"_

His thumbs slowly circle my sensitive nipples in that certain way that always makes me quiver. How does he know to do that? _"It seemed warranted."_

_"W-w-arranted?"_ I almost can't talk.

_"Earned."_

My nervous system can only take so much at a time; I back away half a step, and he releases my breasts, gliding his hands around my chest and up to my shoulders. We both rest a moment.

_"Earned, how?"_ I insist._ "Can't I have at least a hint? Not knowing is really bothering me. Or are you testing me?"_

_"Probably."_ He looks reluctant to admit it._ "I should know it's not necessary, but habits..."_ He sighs._ "Trust. You've proven worthy of a certain degree of trust."_ He starts to fuss with my hair a bit then, arranging errant strands and tidying the bow. I suddenly get it.

_"I guess I talked to you a lot the other night, then?"_

Eyebrows raised, he nods without meeting my eyes. _"Yes."_

I feel a little embarrassed, but not as much as you'd think. Like I've said, I like being looked at.

He stops with the fussing to cup my face in his hands, and this time he kisses with his lips already parted. His tongue slides delicately across my lower lip, just barely there and then gone, pulling mine just as fleetingly after it, then we meet somewhere in the middle, fully tasting each other. I swear I feel his knees go weak a few times, and he steadies himself with one hand on the bedpost behind me.

Finally he pauses, resting his forehead against mine and breathing heavily. Swallowing, he says, _"On your back, please, here,"_ he indicates the foot of the bed, so I simply sit down and lie back, looking at him expectantly. He gazes at me, lying there with my hands bound under me, wearing the leather harness and my now-soaking white lace thong, and his expression is both intense and inscrutable. It's like he's trying to memorize me, every detail and nuance, whilst still maintaining that none of it matters in the least.

Reaching down, he slides a fingertip under the triangle of wet, white lace, and shakes his head as he feels around. _"You always miss a few spots...here...and, here as well..."_

_"Well, I have to leave something for you to fuss with, don't I?"_ And out comes the shaving kit. To be honest, I actually do try to leave a few rough patches for him; it's dawned on me that if I give him something real to tidy up, he'll spend less time going over parts that are already seen to.

After I'm smoothed to his exacting standards, Mycroft has me wriggle up higher on the bed, up to the top, as he adds his trousers, shirt and shoes to the valet's burden. Standing in his silly white vest and pants, he pauses and gives me a canny look;_ "Shall we strike the same deal?"_ he asks.

I laugh, _"God, yes, please!"_ In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say; hard to see how it could get worse.

He strips off and, of course, carefully folds his whites, then slides down beside me, pulling me in close and hard. He is pressing me against him, everywhere...then stops and make a face. _"This,"_ he taps a brass loop on the harness, _"this is in the way. Here, sit up for a moment."_ Off comes the leather strapping, and I have a hope that the cuffs will come off as well, but we're not there yet-although, he merely clips my wrists together over my head instead of needing to anchor me. Progress, of a sort.

We're deliciously skin-to-skin then, and he plays me with delight, relishing each gasp and moan and sigh that he can elicit, until he himself is so far gone that he can't stand it anymore. He stops to apply a condom, and lies back down beside me, kissing me deeply as he pulls my parted thighs toward him, searching to enter.

Side-by-side is okay, but I desperately want him deep, as deep as possible, and the best way is for me to be on top. Following my urge, I gently push my elbow against the front of his shoulder, and roll him over with my hips as I smoothly sheath his length inside me. Suddenly, he's on his back, hands grasping my thighs on either side of his body as I kneel astride him, and his eyes are wide with surprise. I smile with triumph; didn't see that coming, didja?

I rock my hips slowly, letting the weight of my body push him as deep as possible inside me. There's a nerve plexus way up there, and when a woman is aroused to the heights I am right now, that spot becomes exquisitely sensitive to deep thrusting-the waves of pleasure are delicious. Under the right conditions I can have one little orgasm after another, rolling in waves for many minutes at a time, and if these aren't the right conditions, you can bet nothing ever will be.

His hands are urging me to move faster, and I also remember how he likes eye contact, so in the midst of my waves I lean over him, placing my bound wrists over his head and my elbows planted on either side. We are so matched for height that I am able to hold eye contact in this position easily as I ride him, rolling my hips forward and back, letting his hands on my thighs conduct the rhythm. Eyes locked with mine, mouth wide, he pants and writhes beneath me.

I can't say that we come together in one glorious burst or something, because a multiple orgasm for me simply goes and goes and goes, and keeps going for a while after everything else has stopped. Mycroft, however, does explode under me in one long, glorious burst, bucking wildly with a hoarse cry, and afterward lies there gasping and trembling, long after I have rolled off of him and curled up, alongside but not touching him.

He turns his head to gaze at me, and he is still vibrating slightly._ "That...that...that was..."_ and he just closes his eyes and swallows. I'd love to cuddle close right now, but I don't know if he could take it, so I just close my eyes as well and enjoy how good it feels to be in my skin right now. Any moment now he'll jump up and go shower, then unbind one of my wrists...

I hear a soft snoring close by, and have to stifle a giggle. Somebody has fallen asleep, and it's not me! Well, it is a Sunday afternoon, I suppose a nap might be called traditional.

I open my eyes to study the man sleeping beside me. A shaft of sunlight sneaks through the mini-blinds and streaks across the both of us; his hair glows dark chestnut, the red more of a suggestion than a colour. What remains of his hair, that is. Poor man, nature isn't always kind. Daddy's hairline made the same hasty retreat in his thirties, and I remember how it bothered him. Of course, by the time the cancer took Daddy he was totally bald, but that's another tale, and much sadder.

I wonder if the moles on his cheek annoy him, little irregularities that they are, or if they're granted grudging acceptance. The deep furrow between his brows is almost relaxed, but I can still see the shadow of the groove; I don't think it ever quite goes away. What does he do for the government that is so important, so essential, yet there's no name for it, no official title, nothing but incredible stress?

His breathing starts to speed up, he's on the edges of a dream...then his eyes fly open with a sudden intake of breath, and he looks at me wildly for a second, almost with panic. "_Steady on, Mycroft,_" I murmur. He blinks, then quickly sits up, rubbing his face and obviously a little disoriented.

_"How long did I sleep?"_ he asks brusquely.

_"Just a few minutes, not long at all."_

He jumps up and goes to shower and dress with his usual ferocious efficiency, and I settle in to doze and wait for the few minutes that I know it takes him. Shortly, Mycroft is standing beside the bed and leaning over to release me, but this time it's not just the one wrist. He takes both cuffs off me, and nods at the bathroom.

_"Please clean up and get dressed, Angel. We have some business to attend to this afternoon."_

I sit up, probably looking confused, because he reiterates, _"Shower and dress, immediately. You're coming with me."_


	12. Chapter Twelve

**_Chapter Twelve: "Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it, whispering 'Grow! Grow!'" ~ The Talmud_**

_"Where are we going?"_ I ask, rolling off the bed and standing up. "_What for?"_ I'm still a little woolly-headed from the tremendous romp we just had, and now I'm meant to shift gears just like that...?

Mycroft holds up a hand as I start in with the questions; he, at least, is completely composed. "_No, I really don't-just, shower and dress, and meet me downstairs. I'll have the car waiting."_ He pulls his gold pocket watch out and flips it open to check the time with a frown and starts out of the room, then turns and adds, "_Modestly, if you will, by the way. Dress modestly. And...discreetly, please."_ He motions toward my shoulder with the rapidly-fading bruise. He turns to go out the door again, then stops, and turns back, "_Oh, and-"_

I have to laugh._"Oh, for pity's sake, why don't you just pick out my outfit for me? It will obviously save a lot of time!"_ I wave toward the mahogany wardrobe. "_Knock yourself out, have fun, I'll put on whatever you lay out for me."_

I duck into the bathroom, leaving him to figure it out. I take a quick rinse, and then blow-dry my hair. By the time I'm out, he has laid out his choices on the bed and gone downstairs.

This certainly isn't the first time I've let a man dress me; one of my ex's used to love to do it, I think that was the main reason we were together-I was his live-in dress-up dolly. I have always found it very telling what men will pick out when left to their own devices.

This one has chosen for me to wear a very feminine long-ish skirt in navy with a tiny paisley print, a crisp white sleeveless blouse, a red-and-blue scarf, and conservative pumps. It's girly and classic and not terribly sexy, although I know I can make a wool sack look sexy if I even half try.

What is most telling is that he has even chosen the undergarments, and which ones. He pulled out the sluttiest bra-and-knicker set I own, with matching sleazy suspenders and nude-tone stockings. Now, it takes a man to think that suspenders and stockings are a good idea on a warm August day, and a very particular kind of man to put you into your sexiest underwear when he takes you out for a Sunday drive...

At any rate, this does indeed save a lot of time; I don't have to worry if I am going to pass inspection, and there is no second-guessing and trying on multiple outfits. I'm dressed, hair and makeup done, in record time. Mycroft rises from the sitting-room chair when I come in, checking his watch again, and nods approvingly. "_Yes. That will do nicely..."_ he takes a closer look and frowns, "_...except that the scarf isn't-come here, please."_

I obediently go to him to have the scarf done over. He arranges it around my neck instead of outside my collar, and then keeps fussing with the pleats and folds, twitching and fluffing them. His face is nearly expressionless, but his fingers feel tense to me, and that furrow is back in his brow.

_"Why are you so nervous?"_ I ask._ "What's going on?"_

He gives me a shrewd glance, and shrugs slightly in an eloquent admission. He puts his hands into his pockets, probably to keep from further twiddling, and gives me a searching look. _"Angel-"_ he begins, then stops like he changed his mind, bites his tongue for a fraction of a second, and starts over again.

_"Angel, I would like to remind you that your behavior out there will reflect on me. I hope I can rely upon you to be discreet."_

I can't help the wry grin that spreads over my face. _"Don't worry. I'm leash-trained as well as housebroken. I do need to know, though, how you want me to play it. Am I your date? Your personal assistant? A total stranger? Your mother's best friend's niece?"_

_"Barely acquainted will do nicely."_

I gather up my handbag and deadpan at him, "_A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes."_

He gives me a pleasant nod as he takes up his umbrella and opens the door for me. _"Miss Talbot."_

It feels extremely odd walking out of the flat at Mycroft's side; somehow very wrong. It's not like I don't know how to conduct myself-I was being a smarty about leash-training, but I really did get quite the training from the Agency in proper deportment for all sorts of situations. I know that wherever it is that we're going, I can handle it just fine.

No, it's just being out in public with him that feels odd. It's probably the same for him, maybe even more so. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye as we make our way along the cobblestone street toward the black saloon parked at the corner, and he looks totally composed, dapper and confident. Okay, so that's how we roll. I match him, stride for stride.

The car starts up as we draw near and Mycroft opens the door for me. Sliding inside, I look to see who is driving, and it's that pretty brunette, Ms. Bitchy Black Dress. She doesn't acknowledge my presence, but looks over her shoulder at her boss and, at his nod, drives off.

We proceed in silence. Mycroft twiddles the whanghee handle of his umbrella, and seeing it twirling in his long fingers reminds me of the other night...I guess I never will know what exactly happened, will I? I really can't remember, and neither Mycroft nor the umbrella are saying a word. I suppress a giggle, and look out the window. It occurs to me that he must be quite tense, to be twiddling it like that, and his nervousness is affecting me. Where the hell are we going, and what is he worried about?

We get onto the motorway headed south. Mycroft's phone gives a chime, and he takes it out to look at the text, grimaces, and puts it back in his pocket. I sigh, and look out the window.

Quite soon we take the exit for Camberwell, and then we are pulling up at the entrance for King's College Hospital. Mycroft gets out. I'm not sure if I should get out or not, so I wait to see if he's going to come round and open my door; Ms. Bitchy Black Dress rolls her eyes at that, I can see in the rear mirror. Whatever.

He opens it, murmuring, "_Miss Talbot."_ I climb out, and look from the hospital to him. He just gives me a bland smile, and motions that I should follow him. I do, as the car drives off, but I'm not exactly striding along. I don't get why we should be paying a visit at a hospital-oh! Sherlock. Of course.

But why would he want me to visit his boyfriend-or-whatever-he-is with him? He certainly didn't want me to even inquire after Sherlock's health, why would he bring me here in person? I don't get it.

As we come to the main entrance, I notice that Mycroft has brought his umbrella along. It's funny that he didn't leave it in the car, but then I remember how he had it with him when he had me brought to him in the warehouse. It wasn't raining that day, either-I bet it's his transitional object. I can't be judgmental about that, though, because I suspect that my phone is mine...especially when I'm nervous, I check a zillion times to make sure it's in my bag. For Sara, it's her keys; I guess we all have our crunchy bits.

The lobby is fairly quiet, even for a Sunday afternoon. I hate hospitals, they always smell of disinfectant and despair. I can feel part of my brain shut down when we walk through the doors and that smell hits me, it's a defense against remembering all the miserable hours spent as a helpless bystander in one hospital or another...

We sail past the lifts and go down a stairwell; how did Mycroft know I would prefer to avoid the lifts? I guess nothing should surprise me by now.

We exit the stairwell after a few flights, making a sharp turn out into the corridor that almost sends a hurrying figure crashing into Mycroft-and it's someone I recognize after a second. It's the plainclothes cop at the Met, the one who watched the suits drag me off. He was the D.I. following up on the escort murders; I wish I could remember his name, but it escapes me.

The two of them obviously know each other, although the cop looks surprised to see Mycroft here. Very surprised, and a little suspicious. He glances quickly between Mycroft and me, and I can tell his policeman's mind is putting together connections.

But he affects nonchalance. _"Sorry about that!"_ he says, brushing a hand through his shock of silvering hair. "_Didn't expect anyone to come popping out of the stairs. I've been waiting by the lifts for Miss Talbot and her escort-didn't know it would be you..."_

Mycroft manifests one of his pleasant smiles as he straightens the coat sleeve that the cop brushed against. "_Yes."_

Wait a minute, the D.I. was waiting for ME? I suddenly have a very bad feeling about being here, and my stomach churns cold. I start to ask a question, but the cop has already stepped forward toward Mycroft again, and looks like he's squared himself up for a little confrontation. The two of them are oblivious to me for the moment.

_"Since I've got you here, I have something to say. I want you to know I don't appreciate the interference."_ The cop is speaking quietly, not wanting to make a scene. "_You need to let me do my job. Restricting my access to resources is-"_

_"He is not a 'resource,' Inspector. He is gravely ill and mustn't be tempted to overextend himself again. You'll just have to rely upon your own limited 'resources' until further notice."_ Mycroft's voice is soft, but edged with sarcasm.

_"I just wanted to talk to him, that doesn't seem so unreasonable, does it?" T_he cop is obviously frustrated, and not taking any care at all to hide it. Mycroft seems unconcerned, although his umbrella is planted on the floor between himself and the other man.

_"He can't hear about a puzzle without wanting to get involved in solving it, so yes, talking to him is entirely unreasonable. Your visiting privileges will be reinstated when Sherlock is well enough to be released from hospital again."_ This last is stated with quiet finality, and Mycroft rises up on his toes just a bit to tower just a little more over the shorter D.I...Lestrade, that's his name.

Lestrade glares, starts to say something, then throws his hands in an I-give-up gesture. _"Right. Fine. So, what about her?"_ he waves a hand at me. "_Are you going to let us question her now, or are you going to continue to keep her under wraps as well?"_

I didn't know I was "under wraps!" What's been going on?

Mycroft shakes his head. _"She doesn't know anything at all useful for your investigation. There was no point in your questioning her."_

_"Then, why wouldn't you allow it? What's the harm?"_

Mycroft doesn't answer, but twiddles his umbrella handle a little.

_"I could force the issue,"_ Lestrade threatens.

Mycroft looks unimpressed. _"I doubt it."_

Lestrade looks away, his jaw working a little, but he's obviously a man who knows when to quit. "_Right. Let's get this over with, then."_ He turns abruptly and walks quickly back the way he came.

_"Get what over with?"_ I ask to the general air as we follow, but Mycroft is ignoring me, and Lestrade apparently doesn't hear.

We stop in front of a set of wide double doors, and when I look up, the chill in my stomach turns into painful knots. The small sign above the doors reads, "Morgue." Oh, dear god, no.

I can feel my eyes and mouth widen with shock, and I look over at Mycroft, dumbstruck. Lestrade pulls one of the doors open for me, but I just stand frozen; he looks at my face, and then at Mycroft in disbelief.

_"Didn't you even tell her what she was here for?"_ a noise somewhere between disgust and irritation escapes from him. "_You're worse than Sherlock!"_

_"That very possibly might be true,"_ muses Mycroft quietly, and he leans on the umbrella planted in front of his feet, watching me with a slight frown of concern.

I can feel most of my brain suddenly shutting down as I run away inside myself. I don't want this...I don't want to be here, so the automatic reflexes take over. A door is being held open for me, so I walk through it. The silver-haired man holding the door takes my arm and speaks to me quietly as he guides me down a corridor; his words don't really register in my head, but the kind tone does. We enter another room, a cold one with several gurneys and wall of big steel drawers. Another man, a short, dark one in a white lab coat, is there.

They converse for a minute. Then the man in the lab coat pulls open one of the drawers, and there is a whiff of meat gone bad, and there is a human body under a sheet. A hand pulls the sheet down just enough so I can see the face. _"Can you positively identify him for us?"_

_"Yes, I knew him."_ Words come out of my mouth, even though it doesn't sound like my voice. I am very far away.

_"What is his name?"_

_"He was Steen Dijkstra."_

The short man in the lab coat is holding a clipboard. _"Could you spell that, please?"_

I look at the clipboard. Spell? Yes, words have magic, that's why they call it spelling...but I don't have any right now. I just shake my head, and the motion makes a tear spill down my cheek.

The silver-haired man slides his arm around my shoulders. _"Let's get her out of here. Ashok, can we use your office?"_

It's a small office. The computer chair squeaks and creaks when I sit down in it. The short, dark man has a cup now instead of a clipboard, and he puts the warm cup into my hand, so I say, _Thank You_ and drink some of it. It's more like tea than anything else, so I decide that it's tea and drink some more.

The silver-haired man sits down in a chair across from me, and leans forward with his elbows braced on his knees, looking at me. He doesn't look anything like my father, but he sharply reminds me of him...the name slowly surfaces in my brain. Lestrade... is looking at me closely, evaluating. He's probably gauging if I am coming out of shock or going in deeper. I shift my eyes up and see Mycroft standing just behind and to one side of Lestrade. He, too, is watching me, and his blue eyes are more remote than Lestrade's dark ones, even though I know them much better. Much.

I hold Mycroft's gaze, and ask him, _"When?"_ My voice sounds like my own again, although a little whispery and hoarse. I swallow another sip of tea, and repeat to Mycroft, louder, _"When?"_

Lestrade misunderstands, and answers, "_He was found last night..."_

I shake my head, and repeat again to Mycroft, "_When?"_ He knows exactly what I mean, and I see his tongue captured in his cheek as he lowers his eyes down to the umbrella handle slowly twirling in his slim fingers.

_"I cast an eye over the police reports every morning, Miss Talbot. Including Sundays,"_ then he looks steadily, unwaveringly at me.

He knew, then. He knew when he came to me today. He knew, because he knew Steen's face as well as I did, and the reports always include photos of unidentified db's. That selfish son of a bitch knew, but he wasn't going to spoil his Sunday fun by telling me. I feel hot rage uncoiling in my belly.

Lestrade is watching us closely, oozing both suspicion and curiosity, so I button up my anger and shelve it, for now. There is going to be a reckoning, but it can wait. I turn my eyes back to Lestrade, who wastes no time getting to business.

_"Miss Talbot, I have a few questions that I need you to answer,"_ he cranes his head to glance up at Mycroft, who stands like a pin-striped statue not a foot away._ "Assuming, of course, that I'll be allowed to ask them..."_

Mycroft nods graciously, his gaze still unwavering. Lestrade looks back to me. "_Miss Talbot, what was the nature of your relationship with Mr. Dijkstra, and how long have you known him?"_

_"We were friends, I met him about...a year and a half ago, at a Christmas party."_ Where, in a fit of extreme depression, I was bent on some serious self-destruction. Steen scooped me up, took me home and cleaned me up...

_"Were you...intimate friends, or just friends...?"_ He sees the angry look on my face that this elicits, and looks a little uncomfortable. _"Sorry to pry, but we have to be clear, for the report."_

_"For the report, we were just friends. For the report, people can actually care deeply about each other without having to jump in bed together. Even if they are both sex workers."_

_"That, ah, was my next question. Was Mr. Dijkstra a...collegue...?"_ Lestrade is fumbling around a bit for a term, maybe not wanting to speak ill of the dead. He didn't know Steen, that it was just about impossible to offend him.

_"He was a freelance escort."_ The first rule of working for the Agency is, you don't talk about the Agency-as far as law enforcement is concerned, we are all freelancers. I'm focused on Lestrade's eyes, but I can see Mycroft from the corner of mine and he is still as stone, his face completely composed.

_"Miss Talbot, when was the last time you heard from Steen?"_ Lestrade shifts in the chair a bit; I think Mycroft looming right over him is making him nervous.

_"Thursday night. He phoned me."_

_"Yes, you were the last call he made. There was no identification on the body, but we found his phone nearby. Ordinarily, that would make you a prime suspect, but we've been assured that that is impossible..."_ Lestrade glances up at Mycroft again for a second, then once more at me._ "What did Mr. Dijkstra say to you?"_

Mycroft gives a microscopic shake of his head, and follows it with a stern look. _Nothing_ is the message I'm getting. Okay, I don't know why I shouldn't tell Lestrade anything, but I'm not going to go against Mycroft until I understand what is going on here. _"He didn't say much. He was...upset, but he wouldn't tell me why, or where he was. When I saw him earlier in the week, he mentioned leaving to visit family soon, in Adelaide or Amsterdam, he wasn't sure which, so I didn't even know if he was still in country or not."_

_"Are you sure you can't remember any details of what he said to you on the phone?_" Lestrade presses, and Mycroft's eyes narrow at me the tiniest bit more.

I make a show of searching my memory, then shake my head._ "Sorry, no. It was a very short conversation. He seemed in a hurry, and like I said, upset. But he wouldn't tell me anything. He just wanted to say 'Hi'..." I_ close my eyes as my chin starts to quiver uncontrollably, and I feel hot tears spilling over. Steen had been calling to say good-bye, and he knew it. And I missed it, because of bloody Mycroft. I ignore Lestrade's offer of a box of tissues, instead propping my handbag open on the desk beside me so I can dig in it for my handkerchief. I hate disposable anything.

Once found, I press the soft linen to my eyes with one hand, the other balled up in a fist on my lap, and try mightily to get a grip on myself. I hatehatehate being all emotional like this in front of other people, I hate it. Crying for effect is one thing, it's a useful tool to get what you need in a situation, but crying for real is plain awful. It's pathetic.

The fist in my lap is taken up in someone's large, warm hands; I look up, still sniveling. Lestrade pats my hand both awkwardly and kindly, with a sympathetic look that seems genuine. I give him a tremulous smile. I really hope he's as competent as he is decent, because I really want the people who killed Steen to get what's coming to them.

Mycroft shifts slightly on his feet, and I glance up at him. He's wearing an expression of extreme distaste as he stares at Lestrade's hands clasping mine-he looks like he should like to spit something out. I'm not surprised, he did strike me as someone who wouldn't care to share his toys. Hard cheese, as my Auntie used to say. If you won't offer comfort, then somebody else will, Mr. Holmes.

I turn back to Lestrade, and say _"Thank you,"_ moving my hand slightly to indicate that he should let go of it, which he promptly does. _"Thank you,"_ I repeat again, and carefully wipe under my eyes, hoping to remove any traces of mascara or eyeliner that washed down in the floods. I would've worn waterproof if Mycroft had told me where the hell we were going, but never mind.

I lift my chin, no longer quivering, to show Lestrade that I've got a handle on myself again._ "I'm fine now. Let's get on with it."_

"_Okay,"_ he nods. _"Okay, can you tell me if Mr. Dijkstra was in any kind of trouble? Was there anyone who would want to harm him for any reason?"_

I don't need to see Mycroft's warning look on this one to know how to answer. I sure as hell hope I'm lying for a good reason._ "No, not that I know of."_

_"Did he have any enemies, or people that he mentioned that he disagreed with? Any incidents that might have made people unhappy with him?"_

I shake my head no. Lestrade purses his lips a little._ "How much do you know about his...customers, Miss Talbot? Were there any who might have wanted him out of the way?"_

Oh, besides the chap in the pinstripe suit standing not a foot away from you, Inspector? Up to this second, it hadn't occurred to me that Mycroft would be a perfect suspect in this. He was clearly jealous of the time Steen and I spent together that afternoon, he had been an occasional client of Steen's for a number of years, and Steen might have known some incriminating things...except that I think that if Mycroft had actually been responsible for this, the body would never have been found. I can't imagine him being so sloppy, ever, case closed.

_"No. I don't know much of anything about Steen's clientele."_ The D.I. leans back in his chair, probably trying to think of more questions to ask while he's got me.

_"Do you know if he kept a little black book, a list of clientele? We're analyzing the data on his phone right now, but there doesn't seem to be a client database on it."_ Analyzing the data on Steen's phone? I wonder if he used to access the forum from his phone. I need to delete his account as soon as I can, just in case.

I shake my head._ "I'm sorry to be so useless, Inspector. We just didn't talk shop much at all, it's too easy to get competitive with each other when you do."_ And that may be the first true thing I've said to Detective Inspector Lestrade since I sat down.

Now it's my turn, just for a little. I ask him, "_Please, can you tell me how...I need to know what happened to him."_

Lestrade sighs. _"What I can tell you is, his body was found late last night in an abandoned building in Brixton. He was shot in the back three times, and died pretty much instantly, very likely late Thursday or early Friday morning. There was a little bit at the scene for us to go on; I'll get the ballistics report tomorrow morning, and that may tell us something more. I was hoping you could add some more information,"_ he shrugs. "_I'm sorry I had to put you through this, but it was necessary, and we may need to call you in again-"_

_"I think not,"_ Mycroft cuts in sharply. _"She clearly knows nothing that can be of use in your investigation, there will be no need for further questioning."_

Lestrade doesn't look up at Mycroft; he just closes his eyes like he is counting to ten, then gives me a long-suffering look. He reaches into the breast pocket of his suit coat, pulls out a card case, and flips a business card out of it to hold in front of my eyes before tucking it into my open handbag._ "Keep this around, just in case, okay? Can't hurt."_ He gives me a smile that's only a little bit disingenuous. "_Just in case you remember something important. You can call me anytime."_

I nod, putting my hanky away in an outside pocket of my bag where I can find it easily. Mycroft goes to the door and opens it for me; I rise and shake hands with the D.I., the two of them exchange curt nods, and I am off, following in Mycroft's wake, winding our way back to the stairs and probably out.

My head is still reeling, just reeling. I am still in a little bit of shock, and I can tell I'm not quite all back together yet, but I'm together enough to be equal parts furious and curious. "_So," I_ ask Mycroft, "_are we headed someplace where we can talk? Because you can bet that I've got a whole lot of questions..."_

As we exit the stairwell, Mycroft checks his pocket watch. "_No, not at the moment. You'll be dropped off at the flat. I have some important business to attend to."_

Right, isn't that classic? There's important business, and then there's you. Opposite ends of the spectrum, obviously. I stop, dead in my tracks, in the middle of the hallway._ "No. I need to talk to you, now."_ I glare at him, mulishly.

A few steps ahead, Mycroft half-turns toward me, impatient. "_Angel, COME!"_ he snaps.

Is he actually calling me like a dog? Unbe-fucking-lievable. Oh, if he wants to treat me like a dog, I'll be glad to show him what a bitch I can be. I turn on my heel and walk the other way, noticing a cluster of signs on the wall; one of them says "Chapel" with an arrow pointing the way. Perfect.

Mycroft catches up with me quickly, and puts a hand on my arm; I shrug him off violently and keep walking. "_Angelica!" _he growls softly through his teeth, but then we are in front of the sturdy paneled door marked, "Chapel," and I turn the brass handle and go in.

It's what you expect for a hospital chapel; a few wooden pews, a big, plain wooden cross on the wall. There is one person in the room already, an older woman sitting on the nearest pew who turns to look at us as we storm in. I lean down into her face and snarl the first thing that pops into my head: "_I'm an angel of the lord, woman! Clear out before I rain down fire!"_

With a terrified squeak, she snatches up her handbag and scurries out. I lock the door behind her, and turn on Mycroft. He gives me a very cold, very angry look. "_I don't have time for this,"_ he warns.

_"Trust me, you don't have time to not do it."_ I am warning him right back. "_I need..."_ I can feel tears rising again, and I fight them back furiously. _"I need to know what's going on. Why didn't you tell me about...about Steen? And why did you want me to lie to Lestrade?"_

Mycroft closes his eyes and sighs impatiently. "_I didn't tell you earlier because I deduced that you would be quite upset-which proved correct, didn't it? So why make you waste a perfectly good afternoon being upset before you had to be?_" I open my mouth to answer, and close it again. My god, he really is a Martian.

But there's a gaping hole in the argument. "_Okay, but why didn't you at least tell me right before we left? Surprising me that way was not very nice. In fact, it was really shitty."_

Mycroft looks everywhere but at me, and there is a long pause. Finally, he reluctantly admits, "_Truthfully, I didn't want to deal with your reaction. I've never been very good with that sort of thing."_

_"I can see it, if by 'that sort of thing' you mean an actual person having actual feelings."_

_"What you call actual feelings, I would call wallowing in sentiment."_ He's getting disdainful now.

_"Grief isn't wallowing in sentiment. It's an inevitable reaction to loss."_ I look at him, searching. _"You knew him too, Mycroft. Doesn't it bother you, how he died?"_ I regret the words as they leave my mouth, because I already know the answer.

_"No, not at all. Does my lack of grief bother you?"_ His voice turns sharp and mocking, turning my own words against me. "_How about if I just faked it for you? Would that be sufficient? I'm very good, most people can't even tell the difference."_

_"I'm not most people."_ Two can play that game.

_"Perhaps not."_ I can't quite fathom the look he gives me, except that it seems a little pained.

I look away and change the subject._ "Why did you have me lie to Lestrade? I really do have information that could help the investigation, maybe catch the killers..."_

_"I know that. And it is irrelevant."_

_"How can it be irrelevant?"_

_"Because I am standing down the investigation. There will be no further inquiry."_

_"What?! You can't do that!"_ The look he give me says, Oh, yes I can, and I answer,_ "Okay, yes, you can do that, but it's not right! The police have to do their job and find the people responsible for this! They have to!"_

Mycroft shakes his head, like he's explaining something very simple to a very small child. "_No, they don't. The overwhelming majority of murders remain unsolved, Angel, and it's best that this is one of them."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because it comes too close to people whose effectiveness could be compromised in the course of the investigation."_

_"You mean, yourself!"_

_"Amongst others, yes."_

_"So, let me get this straight. You are going to declare the investigation closed, and let Steen's murderers go free, because you don't want to have any awkward questions asked. Is that it?"_

He weighs it a little. "_More or less, yes."_

_"And you don't see anything wrong with this?"_

He frowns._ "No, of course not. It's necessary."_

_"Necessary?"_ I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin with everything I'm feeling right now, so I start pacing to try and straighten my thoughts out. Mycroft pulls out his phone and thumbs a quick text, then puts it away and waits stoically, watching me.

I give it my best shot at explaining._ "It's not decent...it's not acceptable to let this go unpunished. It's an insult to his memory to just let it go like this. It's saying that he wasn't important."_

Mycroft just looks puzzled. "_Well, he wasn't."_

It feels like a kick in the stomach when he says that. I want to cry out, How can you say that Steen wasn't important? You were with him, many times, like you've been with me...he cared about you, he noticed you, how could you not notice him? How could you not care?

But I don't say any of that, because it wouldn't make any difference. Not a bit. I just stand there and silently weep, because I realize that it's true, and that just like Steen, I'm not important, either.

Tears streaming down my face, it's too much for me to keep in anymore. "_We're just disposable people, aren't we?"_ I shout._ "Like some fucking tissue that you wipe up with and toss away when you're done, we're completely disposable! Not worth a second thought, or even a first thought, are we?"_

Choking sobs tear out of my throat for a breath or two, and then I deliberately swallow the storm down. Once you really get going it's all too easy for grief to consume you, so you have to stay on top of it or risk drowning. I fish my handkerchief out and sit down on a pew to wipe my eyes and blow my nose.

Mycroft looks a little stunned. _"Angel-" h_e starts, then pauses and continues. "_Angel, surely you can accept that some people have more importance than others?"_

I nod. "_Yes, but less important doesn't mean worthless. It doesn't mean disposable. Or at least, it shouldn't."_

Mycroft's brow furrows. _"And how is bringing his killers to justice going to benefit your friend? He's dead."_

I let out something between a laugh and a sob at this; my god, he is so clever and stupid at the same time! How do I answer a question like that? That's not the sort of question anybody over the age of five would ask. I close my eyes and let the part of me that knows these things make an answer.

_"It's not for him, it's for me. I identify with Steen because he was my friend. So what is done to him, is done to me, in a way. If he's thrown away, then so am I."_ I open my eyes to look up into Mycroft's._ "Look, I don't expect that you will completely understand how I feel, okay? You're...the way you are. I'm not anyone to be judging you, or anyone else. But please, let me help with bringing Steen's murderers in. It will help me in dealing with the grief."_

To do him credit, Mycroft looks like he gives the idea serious consideration for several minutes, but then he shakes his head. "_No. I'm sorry, but no. Every possible scenario that I run comes up with far too much unacceptable risk. The potential benefits don't outweigh the potential costs to anyone-including you."_ He says the last part with very deliberate emphasis, and I know he wants me to hear that I do, indeed, matter. Whether or not I believe it is another thing entirely.

We look at each other for a moment, and I decide that further discussion is quite pointless. I stand up and put away my hanky, signaling that I am ready to go, and Mycroft shifts around so he is by the door.

_"I am going to stand down the investigation, Angel. You are not to pursue this matter further, either on your own or through the police. Is this quite clear to you?"_

I just bow my head submissively and nod.

_"Good. Then we should be on our way..."_ he reaches for the door handle, but I put my palm against the door.

_"One more thing. I need some time...bereavement leave, you know? I'm entitled to some time off, aren't I?"_

_He looks a little chagrined at not having thought of that himself. "Yes, of course. How long would you like?"_

_"Would a week be too much?"_

He doesn't look too happy about it, but says, "_Not at all. Next Sunday, then."_

I nod. "_Next Sunday."_ Six days. I reckon that's long enough to solve a murder, if I have some help.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen: _ "When an inner situation is not made conscious, it appears outside as fate." ~ C.G. Jung_**

I love this old bridge. It's so very Victorian that it's almost a little kitsch, but I still love it. Actually, I just like bridges in general - a bridge is a place between, neither here nor there, going someplace but not arrived. Beginnings and endings are both out of the question when you're on a bridge, you're hanging in the air, over water, and anything is possible.

I'm leaning against the smooth, cold stone of the balustrade, and peering over it into the swirling stream of the Thames below, dropping bits of leafy twig into the water, watching the current carry the green specks away. There was a stone bridge, a little one, near Auntie's cottage; when we lived there with her I spent many hours doing this very thing, going again and again to fetch more twigs to drop more bits, until Sara said I should be careful not to end up chucking the whole forest in there.

Sighing, I drop the last bit in, and watch the murky waters swirl it away. There's a steady stream of motor traffic behind me, and the air would be thick with exhaust fumes if there weren't a freshening breeze. A horn honks occasionally, because Battersea is a commuter's nightmare most days, being such a narrow bridge. It's a beautiful Monday morning, bright and sunny, and cooking up to be a hot one. Steen used to make fun of me, complaining about the occasional hot day here in London. _"You should try a January day down around Alice Springs, girl. Now, that's bloody hot!"_

How is it that we can go weeks without thinking about a particular person much at all, but when they are dead, that's all you can think about? Guilt probably plays a part, although missing his final call is the only thing I can be reasonably accused of. I wish that had been different.

I take out my cigarette case and light one up, despite that it takes a few tries in the breeze up here. Smoking is handy for when you are waiting, it gives you something to do with yourself. I take out my phone and check the time; ten more minutes. I fiddle for a moment with the clock display, setting it how I like instead of the default. I also notice that on this new phone the volume and menu buttons are totally different from my old one, so I'm going to have to pay attention. I like my other one better, but this one isn't traced to me yet, so it can't be used against me. I hope.

My head is such a muddle right now. I wish I felt more certain that I was doing the right thing. I feel bad going against Mycroft's wishes - not just scared, but bad. Like, I don't want to disappoint him. I have to remind myself that it's not like he actually cares; I don't know if he's capable of it, to be honest. He was so callous about Steen's death, and he must have ordered me - ordered me! - at least three times on the way home to stay out of it, that there would be no investigation. And he as much admitted that it was because he didn't want any inconvenience to himself.

He's utterly selfish...but he was also quite kind toward me during the ride back to the flat yesterday. He actually praised me, right there in the car; he told me that I had done very well in dealing with the Inspector. I'm a little ashamed of how good it made me feel when he said it. I don't think Mycroft offers praise very often to anyone, and so there I was like a little doggie wagging my tail at him. But damn, it did feel good; still does. And the look, what I could see of it, on Ms. Bitchy-Dress's face was priceless.

But acting kind isn't the same thing as caring. I have to remember that, because he keeps fooling me. One of my weaknesses is needing to feel special - and Mycroft Holmes sure as hell knows how to play that game.

I take a long drag on my cig and blow the smoke out my nostrils, feeling the burn in my sinuses. It makes my eyes tear up, but I can feel the fog clearing from my brain. I didn't sleep very well last night. I lay there for hours, trying to figure out what to do...

In the end, I guess my mad curiosity won out. That, and new information from one of the Agency girls on the forum; the first thing I did when I got home yesterday was to go online and delete Steen's account, notify everyone of his death, and ask if anyone had information about his activities over the past week or so.

One girl, Joye, did. She posted a private response to my query, and after I read it I got out my new phone and called Inspector Lestrade to arrange a meeting. No matter what Mycroft does if he finds out, I'm at least giving what I know to Lestrade, in hopes that he can follow up on it unofficially or something. It's too important to ignore, and I can't trust that Mycroft won't simply toss the information out as being potentially inconvenient.

Next time I look up from the water, I see a man walking toward me along the smooth stone pavements of the pedestrian walkway; suit coat blowing open in the breeze, grey-and-white striped shirt open at the neck, no tie. When he gets up close, Lestrade gives me a friendly smile, looking out over the view of the river and the city crowded against its banks.

_"Nice spot. A little unusual as a meeting place, but nice."_

I shrug. _"I like bridges."_ And this one doesn't have CCTV cameras on it, only on the street approaches. It wasn't too difficult to lose my usual unobtrusive followers; I just hired my favorite minicab driver, the one who got me away from the black car tailing us when I stalked Mycroft's house. He understood exactly what I wanted and left my followers in the dust long enough for me to get out and hop onto a bus. I left my old phone, the one they can track, safely stowed in his cab with him; he'll drive it around for me so it will, hopefully, not look suspicious. I'll call him to pick me up when I'm done here, and none the wiser.

The D.I. leans his arms on the balustrade, mirroring me, but refuses my offer of a cigarette. I can tell he's bursting with questions; isn't that just like a policeman? Once their suspicions are aroused, they can't stand not knowing. I finish my cig and let the butt drop down to swirl in the murk below.

_"I have to warn you that I was ordered this morning to stand down the investigation into your friend's death,"_ he says. Interesting opening, to let me know that right away. He's working hard to establish trust._ "So, whatever you have for me is going to have to be unofficial, and we can only pull the suspects in for other crimes, not that murder. If we can make something else stick, then the murder case can potentially be re-opened."_

I nod. _"I understand your position. I wouldn't be risking...what I am if I didn't think it was extremely important."_

He turns a bit more toward me, showing his intense curiosity. _"What exactly are you risking? What do you stand to lose if Mycroft Holmes finds out you're here?"_

I look at my hands resting on the smooth granite of the balustrade. I need to tend to my nails, the polish is getting a little worn at the edges, the cuticles a bit ragged. Need to take care of that before next Sunday, although by then, it might not matter. What am I risking? My job for sure. The trust of someone who doesn't trust? Probably. Mycroft will think less of me for doing this, but I will think less of myself if I don't.

_"Not much, in the scheme of things."_ I shrug.

Lestrade keeps pressing, though. _"What's your connection with him?"_

I'm certainly not going to answer that one truthfully, but Lestrade needs an explanation for why I have been under Mycroft's protection, and why I'm here now as an anonymous informant. I'm struck by a thought that tickles my fancy.

_"I work under him at times."_ Truer words I have rarely spoken, and I say it completely straight-faced.

_"Gathering intelligence?"_

I nod. _"Good girls may go to heaven, but bad girls go everywhere, Inspector."_ And I give him a wayward grin.

_"I suppose so,"_ he murmurs, and looks back out over the river. _"What is it, exactly, that he does, then? What's his official title?"_

I start to say, I have no idea, although that doesn't support my claim very well-but then it occurs to me that I do know beyond a shadow of doubt what Mycroft actually does.

_"He makes things tidy. He fixes what's wrong. Truth be told, I think an official title would just get in the way."_

Lestrade looks at me full now, with half a smile._ "Is that a fact?"_

_"To the best of my knowledge, yes."_ Another truth.

_"So, what happened a few weeks ago, when you were dragged out of my office? You were terrified. What was that about?"_

I blush a little at that, embarrassed at what a fuss I had made over nothing._ "It was just a misunderstanding, that's all. Wires got crossed. It was all sorted out later."_

He looks a bit relieved, although not completely convinced. _"Good. I felt a little guilty, you know, that they just took you like that."_ Yes, I know you felt guilty, Lestrade. I was pushing that button for all I was worth that night...but he continues with a frown. _"I really hate having my jurisdiction walked all over. And then I tried to call you in for questioning in the call-girl cases, but you officially disappeared. As in, it would take a high-level security clearance to even get access to a record of your parking tickets, much less an address or phone number. I wondered if something really serious had happened to you."_

Now, that is useful to know. Mycroft has made me officially disappear..."_What, you thought that I'd been killed?"_ Lestrade shrugs and nods. _"No, Inspector, that would only be a last resort. It's apparently surprisingly complicated, I imagine because of all the paperwork."_ I give him a bright smile, and watch his brain sorting that little piece of information.

_"So, what have you got for me?"_ he asks after a pause. I fish in my handbag and pull out the tattered novel, its lurid cover glowing orange in the bright sunlight. Lestrade takes it from me and thumbs through it, shaking his head.

_"What the hell is this? It's not even in English."_

_"It's very possibly the reason Steen was killed. He told me that he had an item that had come to him by accident, one that some different groups wanted very much, although it was best for none to have it, and he hoped they didn't know that he did. Then some pathetic thugs pillaged his flat looking for it, but Steen wouldn't let me call the police to report the break-in...he was afraid of something."_

I take a deep breath and sigh. "_He sent it to me for safe keeping, knowing I wouldn't throw it away, and said he was going to leave the country for a while."_

_"Yeah, we found that he had paid for a ticket to Amsterdam the day before he died, but never picked up the ticket or checked into the airport. Is there more?"_

I nod. _"Yes, there is. When Steen called me Thursday night, he left a message telling me that I had to get this,"_ I wave at the book in Lestrade's hand,_ "to the pigman, that that was the only way to stop 'this thing,' whatever that is. He was adamant about that."_ I look at the D.I. for his reaction, and he just spreads his hands in puzzlement, the breeze riffling the pages of the book in his open palm. So far, he's not much help.

_"And, there was this inside the book."_ I pull the scrap of paper out of my handbag with Evan McCutcheon's name on it, and hand it to Lestrade.

He looks at the paper and gives a little groan._ "Now, there's a name I know, and a place. Evan McCutcheon is quite the businessman."_

"Yep." I look over the water at a commuter catamaran speeding across the choppy waves._ "I went and saw him Friday night, and managed to get him to tell me who the pigman is, or, at least, what he is."_

"_And that is?"_

_"A 'pakhan,' a leader in the Russian mafia. Got anybody who might fit that descrip_tion?"

Holding the book in one hand, and the paper scrap in the other, Lestrade looks over the water for a moment._ "Mad Sacha? It could be Mad Sacha...I've heard rumors that he used to feed his enemies to the feral boars, back home...but I didn't know he was a boss."_

_"Maybe he worked his way up. There's one thing more."_ I hand him the sticky note with the two names that I took down from Joye's message yesterday, and he glances at it quickly and shrugs.

_"I don't recognize either of these names, although they both look to be Middle Eastern. Where did you get them from?"_

_"Another escort. She said that those two men showed up at a party last week in an ugly temper, looking for Steen, and she covered for him so he could slip out the back. She said he was terrified of them!"_

Lestrade purses his lips a little, frowning. _"How reliable is this person?"_

_"Reliable enough-I know her, although not super well. But, what if it's true? Can we afford to ignore it? That's what tipped the scales for me about contacting you; Steen wasn't one to jump at shadows. And what if they're terrorists?"_

_"Now, Miss Talbot, we aren't supposed to profile people based on ethnic background..."_

I give him a look. "_Right. And...?"_

Reluctantly, Lestrade says, _"...and, we'll follow up on them, just in case. And I'll want the contact info for the informant later."_ He gives me a hard look and adds with an edge to his voice, _"Is there anything else that you happened to neglect to tell me yesterday?"_

_"Hey, I'm here talking to you, now!"_

He has the grace to apologize, at least. Turning his back to the balustrade and leaning against it, the Inspector thoughtfully tucks the scraps of paper back inside the book, and leafs through it once more.

_"There's nothing written inside it besides that name in the front, is there?"_

I shake my head. _"No. And no invisible ink, or dot ciphers, or anything like that._"

He looks at me. _"Are you sure that this is actually significant?"_

_"Yes, dead certain. The title means, 'The Torch,' and that's what the thugs who pillaged Steen's flat said they were looking for, the Torch. At first, I thought they meant the kind with batteries..."_

_"Lots of dog-eared pages,"_ he observes._ "And not much else."_ He sighs. _"No way I'm going to be figuring this out, but I know somebody who can. He's very good with puzzles, although he's also very ill right now."_

_"Sherlock?_" I ask.

_"You've met him?"_

_"No, I've just heard about him once or twice, that's all. Mr. Holmes is very protective, isn't he?"_

_"You have a gift for understatement, Miss Talbot,"_ the D.I. laughs. _"Protective, yes. Oh, yes indeed."_

_"How are you going to get the puzzle to him for solving if you're banned from visiting?"_

Lestrade looks at me suspiciously for a moment, but then says, _"Right, I forgot that you must've heard that yesterday. Well, there are ways, I have friends who owe me favors."_ He gives me the book back so he can take out his mobile, but stops and looks around at the cars streaming past just a few feet away on the other side of the wrought-iron traffic barrier. He shakes his head.

_"There's too much noise here to make a decent phone call. I left my car over this way, let's go."_ He turns to go back the way he came onto the bridge, motioning for me to follow, but I stay planted where I am.

_"No. I don't want to be seen strolling around with you, Inspector."_ A look ripples across his handsome face that makes me realize how that could have sounded to a male ego; I quickly add, _"Nothing personal, you understand. It's just that the approaches to this bridge are on camera..."_

Lestrade looks disturbed. _"He monitors you that closely?"_

_"He could if he cared to. Face-recognition software makes it pretty simple these days, if you have the resources, doesn't it? So why take the chance?"_ Actually, I know for a fact that he monitors me that closely, but I don't want the Inspector to suspect that I have any personal significance to Mycroft. _"I'd prefer to wait here, okay? Then you can drive by and pick me up."_

He frowns._ "There's no stopping on the bridge, Miss Talbot."_

I roll my eyes at him. _"Fine. Then text me where I should meet you."_ I turn back to the water, tucking the book into an outer pocket of my handbag. Lestrade hesitates a moment, then strides off quickly.

I'm quite disappointed that Lestrade didn't know more, but I don't know what I expected from the man. I get out another cigarette and fight with the breeze to light it; on the fifth try, as my patience is wearing thin and for some reason I am cursing everything in trousers, I realize that what I expect is for him to fix everything, to make it all better for me. Well, that's not terribly fair, is it? Not his job.

It doesn't take too long for Lestrade to set up a quick visit, I guess, because I haven't even finished the cigarette before there's a text from him, telling me to be ready for the car coming round; in just a few minutes a silver BMW pulls up at the kerb beside me with the D.I. inside, motioning madly for me to get in. Only a few cars have piled up behind him, and the honking and cursing is much less than I would've thought. He gives me a wide grin as I scramble over the traffic barrier and climb in, and I can't help but smile back. Got to reward good behavior...

Apparently, his contact at the hospital will be able to help us get in immediately without being interfered with; the security cameras will be otherwise employed, and the personnel who watch that room will be likewise. We'll have just a bit less than half an hour to talk to Sherlock. Lestrade is gleeful.

_"Ha! Told you I have friends who owe me favors. You can't keep that kind of thing under your heel. People helping each other out, that's how things get done."_ He pounds the wheel for emphasis on the last few syllables, and it's such a familiar gesture that it makes me laugh out loud.

_"What's so funny?"_ Lestrade asks.

_"Smacking the wheel like that when you're excited. My father used to do that."_ I look at him out of the corner of my eye. _"You kind of remind me of him. He was a constable with the Met."_

_"Oh, yeah? Where?"_

_"Croyden."_ I see Lestrade wince just a little; Croyden is not an easy borough for law enforcement. _"He hurt his back taking down a robbery suspect, so they kicked him upstairs to administrative work. He hated it."_

_"Talbot, in Croyden,_" he says to himself, and shakes his head. _"Nope, never met him."_ It would be a wonder if he had; the Met has over 30,000 officers. Lestrade glances at me briefly. _"He's...not around any more?"_

"_Died of cancer, just over two years ago._" I look out the window, and wonder which hospital we're headed to. I guess I'd ask if I cared.

_"I'm sorry,"_ he says quietly. _"Were you close to him?"_

I sigh. I was the one to bring the topic up, it's not fair to shut down now._ "I tried to be. We were close when I was young. My mum died when I was seven, though, and he just was never the same after. He...went cold."_ I keep my face turned toward the window, watching the buildings roll by us, and swallow back the stupid prickle of tears behind my eyes. I lost him so long ago that it's ancient history, you wouldn't think it could still hurt to talk about it.

We go along further in silence, so I ask Lestrade about his family; divorced, he says, no kids. He natters on about his work then, as men often do, telling me the story of his career from constable to D.I., mentioning several high-profile cases along the way. He's clearly trying to impress me, and I actually am a little impressed. He's made some significant busts, and I know just enough about police work to be aware what a coup they are.

I've just asked him for more details about how they really managed to catch the Lambeth Creeper-I remember Daddy talking about that one, it was really strange-but then Lestrade is wheeling us into a parking garage beside a huge hospital, and it's time to go meet Sherlock.

The D.I. seems a little tense as we get out of the car. I eye him carefully, and ask,_ "Is everything okay?"_

He runs a hand through his short-cropped silver hair, his nervous gesture, and reassures me,_ "Sure, yeah, it should be fine."_ I look at him skeptically. "_Okay, well, you haven't met Sherlock before. He's a little...eccentric, right? You never know just what he's going to say, but if there's anyone who can figure that book of yours out, it's him, so it's worth putting up with."_

_"What's worth putting up with?"_ I'm smoothing my skirt as we stand by the car, making sure that everything is where it should be. I'm wearing the plaid sheath dress that I wore to the club Friday, with a wide black leather belt instead of the harness, and black ankle boots.

_"You'll see,"_ Lestrade shrugs in a helpless way, and motions me toward the garage stairs. I hesitate, though.

_"I have a favor to ask of you, Inspector."_ He turns toward me, questioning._ "We haven't discussed it specifically, but you won't mention my association with Mr. Holmes to Sherlock, will you? The less said there, the better..."_

Lestrade frowns._ "Of course I won't mention it. Not really relevant to the case, is it?"_

_"No, not at all."_

He smiles reassuringly again, and checks his watch. _"Well, then, we need to get in there. We have just twenty-two minutes left."_

Lestrade has been to this hospital before; he knows exactly where he is going. I throw him off a little by asking to use the stairs instead of the lifts, but he doesn't argue with me about it, even though it's six floors up.

We're both a little winded by the time we reach the seventh floor, but I'm surprised how well the D.I. keeps up. I follow him down a brightly-lit corridor, and we stop in front of the door for room 707; he knocks briskly, and there is an impatient,_ "What?"_ from inside.

We enter a private single room, standard modern hospital, with the usual bed and a few chairs, a big window with a nice view over some greenery. A youngish man is propped up on the bed, hooked up to an IV and a vitals monitor, wearing a standard-issue white gown with mint-green diamonds on it. He's got his head slightly turned, ignoring us and gazing out of the large window by his bed. Lots of curly dark brown hair, very pale complexion. Lestrade told me on the way up that the bloke had taken a bullet that narrowly missed his heart nearly two months ago, and now was battling a serious internal infection. I didn't mention that this was probably because he wouldn't stay put in hospital long enough to fully recover.

The man in the bed is, of course, Sherlock. He looks a lot younger than Mycroft, a lot younger than I expected. I guess that fits, from what I know of their relationship; Mycroft is definitely the caretaker, maybe the father-figure. Sherlock is very handsome, I can certainly see the attraction. Lestrade stops with me at the foot of the bed and clears his throat. The man in the bed turns his head with a sigh, and looks at us, repeating, _"What?"_

Lestrade does introductions; _"Miss Talbot, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Angelica Talbot."_ I look dumbfounded at Lestrade, and at Sherlock. Holmes? What?

I stare at Sherlock as my brain snaps around trying to redefine things. They're...brothers. They don't look much alike at all, although neither do Sara and I. She's brown-haired, short and curvy...

I bite my lip to keep from giggling outloud. Okay, this is pretty funny, that I thought his brother was...but never mind, it also makes sense this way, maybe more so. I just thought that Mycroft was a kind of obsessive boyfriend, now I think he's an obsessive brother.

It dawns on me that Sherlock is still staring at me as well. His brows are furrowed together, his mouth drawn up in a look of distaste-now he looks quite a bit more like his brother, I know that look-and his gaze is unwavering.

Lestrade clears his throat yet again. _"Sherlock...?_" No response, still staring. I look at the bag of fluids on the IV tower; it doesn't look like he's on a sedative drip or anything, but maybe they've given him something by mouth to keep him quiet.

_"Maybe we should just go?"_ I whisper, but then the figure on the bed takes a sudden deep breath, and turns his frown to Lestrade.

_"Is this some sort of a joke?"_ he says disdainfully. _"Because it's not at all funny."_

_"What's not funny?"_ says a voice from the doorway. A man enters the room holding a coffee cup, he's short and middle-aged, his face and clothes just a little bit rumpled.

_"Lestrade's little joke here,"_ and Sherlock indicates me with a slow wave of his hand. Hey! I glare at him, then look to the newcomer, who has come to stand beside the bed. He is introduced as Dr. John Watson, although he immediately tells me to please call him John. Well, no wonder Mycroft was so relieved that Sherlock had John with him last time he went missing; you'd want a doctor along, wouldn't you?

John returns my friendly smile; he's wearing a wedding ring on his left finger, so the smile isn't that sort of friendly. Still, I can tell he's quite appreciative. Married but not dead.

He takes a sip of his coffee, still smiling and appreciating. _"Angelica doesn't look like a joke to me, Sherlock_."

Sherlock looks annoyed. "_She has to be. The universe is rarely so lazy."_ He scowls at Lestrade. _"I appreciate the effort, but really-"_ and he turns his face back toward the window.

I am completely confused, and I see that Lestrade looks mystified. Only John seems to think this is normal. He calmly strikes up a convo with Lestrade about mutual acquaintances. I gather that they've known each other for a few years at least, long enough for some people to have moved on to different jobs. Eventually the D.I. asks after someone called Mary, and there is an awkward pause for a moment, which is when Sherlock deigns to turn back toward us again.

He fixes me with an intense, pale-eyed stare, and demands,_ "Why are you here?"_

_"I'm helping the police investigate the murder of my friend,_" I say hesitantly, glancing at Lestrade._ "I have some evidence here that they think you can figure out-"_

The man on the bed waves an impatient hand._ "Evidence can wait. I need to know why *you* are here."_ He reaches long fingers to the controls at the side of the hospital bed, raising it up until he is sitting as far upright as possible, and peers at me closely again. _"Why is your hair cut like that?"_

I raise a hand to my hair, running my fingers through the ends. I've got the shoulder-length bob done today in a cute little bouffant, with the fringe swept to the side, and a black leather band holding the rest of it back behind my ears. "Because I like it?" I say uncertainly. I'm not about to tell him that it's because his brother insisted.

_"You had your hair cut recently, probably last week. You are living in Knightsbridge, although you don't rent the flat yourself. Since you are also a prostitute, it would be safe to assume that you have a patron looking after you. Who is it?"_

Wow. What am I supposed to say to all that? How the bloody hell does he know all of that? In open-mouthed surprise, I look over at Lestrade and John, who both give me kind of helpless looks, then back at Sherlock. He gives me a disdainful huff.

_"You look like a goldfish with your mouth gaping open like that, you know."_

Is he trying to get me angry, or is he really that much of a wanker? My knee-jerk reaction is to poke back, so I poke._ "Okay, right about everything except my job description. I'm just a prostitute the way you're just a nosey parker."_

Sherlock almost smiles._ "So, what is the equivalent of a consulting detective, in sex-worker terms?"_

_"An escort. I'm a paid companion."_

_"Paid...how much?_" This elicits a huff from John, but Sherlock ignores him completely.

I give him my best charming smile. _"I'm very sorry, but if you have to ask, you couldn't possibly afford me."_

Sherlock doesn't answer, just looks, his eyes flicking here and there. _"Who IS your patron?"_ He's not asking so much as demanding.

_"Confidential."_ I look over at Lestrade, with the tiniest suggestion of a pout. Although I feel like fuming, I know that hurt plays better than anger; it makes you seem less of a potential threat. _"Inspector, is this necessary? I know your friend is bored, but I'm not here to entertain him!"_

Before the Inspector has a chance to respond, Sherlock cuts in sharply, _"Yes, we've established that *I* couldn't afford you."_ Then, he sighs and holds out his hand. _"I'll take your case, Miss Talbot. Give me the book, please."_

I pull the dog-eared Russian paperback out of the side pocket of my handbag and place it in Sherlock's hand. _"How did you know the evidence was a book?"_

_"You touched the handle of your bag when you said 'evidence here,'"_ he says absently, leafing through the book. _"I could see the outline of it through the kid leather of the bag's pocket, but you aren't the type to carry reading material around with you."_

_"Oh, no?"_ Now I'm really getting angry-god, I absolutely hate 'dumb blonde' stereotyping!

_"No. You're too self-confident to need to hide behind a book, and too curious to want to."_ Oh. Well, maybe he's right.

Sherlock takes the two pieces of paper out from the book's end pages, and examines them closely. "_You wrote this one yesterday,"_ he declares, holding up the yellow sticky note,_ "but where did this other one come from? It was written with a cheap ball-point pen, by a left-handed man..."_ He contemplates the two scraps of paper with a frown.

I explain where the two notes came from, and the book, and about Steen, and about everything else I can think of. John has taken a seat against the wall beside Sherlock's bed, and is steadily sipping his coffee; Lestrade stays standing where he is, every now and again glancing at his watch.

When I pause and tell Sherlock,_ "That's it. That's all I can think of,"_ he gives me a very speculative look, then gazes out of the window. Lestrade checks the time again and makes a face.

_"Sherlock,"_ he says,_"do you think you can help us out here? Can you tell if there's actually something coded in that book that's worth people dying?"_

The pale man riffles through the book's pages again, and looks at the soft-core porn on the front cover with a frown. _"There's nothing coded in this book at all,"_ he declares. Lestrade sighs and shakes his head at me, and I start to object, but Sherlock continues unperturbed._ "There's no code, but it is obviously a cipher. I just have to determine the algorithm. Won't take long._"

_"Well, you'll have to let me know what you come up with later. Miss Talbot and I have to go, NOW."_ Lestrade gives me a meaningful look and nods to Sherlock and John. _"Nice to see you both,"_ he points then at Sherlock, saying, _"Take care of yourself!"_

I add my little see you later, and nice to meet you, and Lestrade takes my arm to steer me out of the room, but Sherlock calls out,_ "Miss Talbot!"_ I turn around, curious, but he just frowns at me for a long moment, then shakes his head, _"Never mind."_

I look at Lestrade, who gives me an I-warned-you sort of shrug, and opens the door for me.

As we're walking back to the car, I have to ask the D.I.,_"How does Sherlock know all that stuff about me? You didn't tell him, and I doubt that Myc-Mr. Holmes did, either. Is he psychic or something?"_

Lestrade laughs and shakes his head._ "I think it might be easier to take if he was. No, he just looks at details and deduces things from them."_

_"How did he guess my line of work, then?"_

_"I don't know. I'm as mystified as you, I always am, but I can tell you that he's not often wrong. I'm very glad that you didn't ask him how he knew, though."_

_"Why?"_

The D.I. grimaces_. "Because he would've told you, and when he tells people how he deduced something, they are just about always sorry they asked."_

I nod. I bet they are.

_"So,"_ Lestrade asks as we get into his car. _"Should I take you back to Knightsbridge, or...?"_

_"No, if it's all the same, I'd rather you dropped me off at Battersea, where we met; I can find my way from there."_

As we go, I ask Lestrade about the other cases he's working on right now, if there's anything interesting. He sighs.

_"Not really. If you've lived with somebody who does police work, you know how it is - days of boredom blended with hours of frustration, punctuated by moments of sheer terror."_

_"Yeah, I do remember hearing about that,"_ I give him a smile, then turn back to what is on my mind._ "But what about the escort murders? Anything new there?"_

_"Nothing at all, I'm afraid."_

_"Do you think that it was a serial killer, like the media were saying?"_

_"No. No, we don't think it was a serial killer at all. It was somebody who wanted it to look like one, but they didn't do their research. Not too bright, overall."_

_"What do you mean?"_ I ask.

_"Well, a true serial killer will kill the race and gender they find attractive, so that's consistent, but serial killers don't just kill their targets, they create a personal contact with them as part of the killing, either during it or afterwards. These ladies,"_ he shakes his head, looking sad, _"these ladies were executed, pure and simple, but despite loads of physical evidence and three eye-witnesses, we aren't anywhere near to nailing a suspect. It's one of those hours of frustration things."_

_"I'm sorry to hear that, Inspector."_

We're at a stoplight, and he looks at me directly. _"You could call me Greg,"_ he offers. Biting my lip, I shake my head, No.

_"Why not?"_ he asks. _"You were calling Dr. Watson, John in a matter of minutes!"_

That's because John Watson wasn't considering asking me out to lunch, I think, and look out the window. I need to be a little less friendly with the Inspector; there's no advantage in having him interested in me. I ask him drop me off at Roper's Gardens on the north bank near the bridge, because I need to sit someplace green and think for a while.

As I get out of the car, I ask Lestrade if he will please make it a priority to call me when he hears back from Sherlock, and as we shake hands the D.I. promises he will.

Watching the BMW drive away, I'm suddenly quite sad. If that man were twenty years younger I'd be all over him, and I think he can sense that. Why are all the good ones always too old, too married, or too gay? Life just isn't fair.


End file.
